Your Hand In Mine
by boxcat
Summary: Sirius Black is attractive and quite possibly a good shag if his kissing is any indication of how good he is in bed, but like most Gryffindors, he's ruled by his heart rather than his head. So by Slytherin standards, he's tragically stupid. Ergo, Andrea Krupp isn't interested in him at all. She's far too busy writing to her anonymous penpal who she knows only as Padfoot, anyway.
1. Tea and Trouble

**One.  
Tea and Troubles**

Pinpricks of sunlight snuck through my coverlet. I groaned, snuggling deeper into the safety and warmth of my sheets. At some point during the night, I'd crafted a makeshift cocoon out of my blanket. From the safety of my cocoon, I imagined myself emerging from the quilted sheets and greeting the morning sky, awash in baptismal sunlight. _Hm._ That seemed like an appealing, albeit highly unrealistic, scenario.

Stifling a loud yawn, I opened my eyes a crack, poked the top of my head out of my sheets, and blinked furiously as my eyes adjusted to the lighting. Sunlight streamed into the room. The clock perched precipitously atop my cabinet read 10:38 AM. I clambered gracelessly out of bed, wearing my blanket at a cloak as I approached the mirror.

"Oh." The blanket dropped to the floor.

My tangled black hair looked rather like a mangled bush sprouting from my head. That is to say, a bush that was desperately in need of a good trim. My eyes were rimmed with smudged, dark liner, and my skin had adopted a pasty white complexion. The ratty Screaming Banshees tee I was sporting did nothing to enhance my thin, doll-like figure.

I extracted a rogue pin from my hair and clamped it between my lips as I attempted to wrestle my hair into place.

"She was forever losing two things: hairpins, and her mind," I said to my reflection in the cracked mirror when I'd finished cleaning up. I hurriedly left the room and stumbled down the burnished steps, exhaling a sigh of relief when I realized my parents, who occupied minor administrative positions at the Ministry, had departed for the day. I grabbed a slice of toast and sat down at the table, massaging my eyelids and trying to recall the events of the past night.

_She gagged. Mulciber chuckled roughly and steadied her, his hands capturing the sides of her head and holding her uncomfortably still. She choked and sputtered for a moment longer before he released her and she fell back, gasping for air as her throat contracted painfully—_

I shuddered involuntarily as the events of last night resurfaced in my mind. I tried to stem the flow, but the floodgates had been opened and now I couldn't forget—

_"There you go, baby girl," he smirked, his fingertips grazing her cheek in a deceptively tender manner. "Daddy likes that." Drea wanted to cry; she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She wiped her running mascara off her cheeks, and paused for a moment in silence as he tangled his hands into her hair. He bent down and kissed the top of her head quickly before sliding a hand beneath her chin, tilting her head up so they were eye to eye. "You're so god damned beautiful," he murmured softly. "I can't believe I ever let you go."_

Bile rose up in my throat. I rested my forehead against the cool table top, and drew my arms down into my lap, waiting until my shuddering subsided. I wished I was angry with myself—angry for succumbing to the unwanted advances of an imbecilic ex, or even angry that I'd been foolish enough to show up to Mulciber's end of summer "get together." I'd received his owl with an incredulous scoff, and at the time, attending had seemed out of the question. But by night fall, my parents had resumed arguing about their usual trivialities, and the rickety, old house had begun to shake as it attempted to contain the magical strain of my father's anger. Leaving the house had suddenly become a much more inviting prospect.

I wasn't angry, though. I was ashamed. And the awful part about shame is that it's paralyzing. It cripples your spirit, and strips you of your autonomy, so you're left a hollowed shell, and the drive to _run_, and _act_, and _move_ is gone.

I pushed the toast away, and headed out the door, judging that I needed the fresh air to clear my head. The sun was high in the sky as I threaded my way through the winding garden footpaths. The flowers were in full bloom, the August air shimmered with heat, and save for the lone garden gnome or two scurrying across the footpath, the setting was so ideal that I half expected a parade of woodland creatures to go frolicking by. Off in the distance, I could just make out the silhouettes of a pair of owls drawing nearer.

I made my way to the vegetable and herbs patch in the garden—the one I'd cultivated myself, and sat down on a tree stump, awaiting the arrival of the owls. The first was a snowy white barn owl bearing two letters with Hogwarts crests on them. One for me and one for my brother. The second owl crash-landed to a stop at my feet, then looked up at me bashfully, a plain white square of parchment clutched in its beak.

"Go on, bye-bye," I shooed the Hogwarts owl off as I eagerly opened my letter. I scanned it quickly, then set it aside. It contained nothing more than a terse "Welcome back to Hogwarts, Andrea Krupp!" and a list of supplies I'd be requiring for my 6th year. The second owl's letter was, as usual, much more intriguing.

_Dearest Anon,_

_Look, I've been thinking this over quite seriously, and it's hardly fair that I've been calling you Anon for what? The past two years or so? But you've had leave to call me Padfoot. I suggest that we even the ground of our correspondence by bestowing you with a nickname. I'd like to formally propose Tiddlywink. And so, I shall begin again:_

_Dearest Tiddlywink,_

_It has come to my attention that our sacred relationship has been tarnished by the strains of conflict. Several suns have risen and set in the August sky since you last wrote to me. Have I offended your honor, Madam? I yearn for nothing more than to return to my home one day knowing that we have buried this wicked grievance once and for all, and to regain the noble gaiety I was once fortunate enough to know._

_If it is a lesson of remorse you wish to teach me by withholding your letters, Madam, go no further, for already I bear the weight of one thousand sins, and keep the scars of this useless row deep within my heart. To return our bond to the highest state, untouched by frivolous mischief, is no easy feat, but with Merlin as my witness, I vow to try._

_Your Servant,_

_Padfoot_

I burst out laughing halfway through. This letter was exactly what I needed this morning. It was cheerful and insubstantial. "Padfoot" had flawless timing. I dusted off my sweats and rushed inside to write a response, but before I did so, I rapped sharply on Jon's door once, and was rewarded with a muffled thud from the inside.

"Oi! Hogwarts letters are here. Get up," I yelled through the door. This was followed by a series of incoherent grunts, which I took to mean "No," so I slid his letter under the door and headed back to my room. I drew up a piece of parchment and a fresh quill, and contemplated my response.

Padfoot and I had started our correspondence at the beginning of 4th year. I'd come to breakfast late one morning during winter break at Hogwarts, and a scruffy looking owl had been loitering in the rafters. I'd coaxed it down and taken the letter from its beak. It wasn't proper to peruse mail intended for another, but I'd never received letters before, and seeing as the Great Hall had been nearly vacant, I'd fancied myself to be the recipient. The letter had been addressed to someone who went by "Prongs," and was something along the lines of:

_Dreadfully bored. I miss you lot, but I haven't time to write or the family will inquire as to who I'm corresponding with. Merry Christmas to you all as well! I've sent Snivellus some shampoo as a gift. I do hope he makes use of it._

_Cheers,_

_Padfoot_

I'd kept the letter in my pocket for nearly a week. Slytherins didn't get letters often and so this one became a good luck talisman to me. I'd naively believed it to a harbinger of good things to some. The fact that it wasn't my letter hadn't bothered me in the least; I'd chanced upon it, and felt that it belonged to me. I didn't waste time pondering over the identities of the people referenced within the letter—Prongs and Snivellous—but I'd puzzled endlessly over the identity of the sender. As far as I knew, no one at Hogwarts was named Padfoot. Unable to make heads or tails of this conundrum, I'd composed a mysterious letter of my own.

_Dear Padfoot,_

_I've accidentally intercepted your letter to Prongs. I mistook the owl as being intended for me. I'd be more than willing to forward you letter to him directly if you'd be so kind as to tell me who he is. And if so, who should I say it's from?_

_My Apologies,_

_Anon_

I'd tip-toed into the Owlery at half-past two in the morning, slipping on the icy floors so that I might post the letter without being seen. After selecting a downy, speckled owl, I'd whispered that the letter was intended for Padfoot, and miraculously enough, the bird had seemed to understand. It had nipped at my fingers affectionately then taken flight in the night sky. I'd waited with baited breath for nearly a week, but received no response. Classes resumed and I threw myself back into my schoolwork. Socially, I was isolated.

My only social interaction with my House were the discreet parties held by Avery and Mulciber, during which the Slytherins in my year would drink and boast about their desire to engage in dark magic. Then there were the usual pureblood heiresses that I dormed with (and did my best to avoid) like Circe Burke and Isla Crabbe who attended for the sole purpose of catching an eligible, pureblooded male.

I'd sit there quietly, feeling obligated to make an appearance despite the fact that these occasions always left me feeling anxious and uneasy. I tolerated these parties in resolute silence, just as I withstood Mulciber's groping advances upon me. I was apathetic towards everything, for a time.

I'd been heading up to the library weeks later when the scruffy owl that had delivered the first letter crashed unceremoniously into a nearby window. The hallway was packed, and the students in the vicinity tittered at the owl's stupidity. I waited until they'd headed to class, then rushed to the window to let it in, and read the scrap of parchment it had brought.

_Anon,_

_It's illegal to read letters that aren't yours. How about you tell me who you are and I turn you in?_

_Sincerely,_

_Padfoot_

I'd snorted when I read it. A polite refusal, or even the revelation of the sender's name would have bored me, but the aggressive response I'd received piqued my interest. I took the liberty of responding in kind, and to my surprise, received another owl.

It happened that I traded short quips with my mysterious pen pal for weeks on end. Then, abruptly, I'd stopped receiving responses for a period of two months. After much deliberation, I'd sent off another letter, unsigned, that simply said: _Well?_

And only a few hours later, the owl I'd sent off in search of Padfoot had returned with a response.

_Life is shit, yeah?_

I had sent an owl back a day later:

_Yeah._

But that was the last time we'd discussed real life. From then on, our letters had been firmly grounded in nothing at all, and consisted of silly anecdotes, queries as to whether coffee was best taken with milk, and inane ranting about teachers. Both of us took pains to avoid revealing our identities. For me, the letters were an enjoyable escape from my life. From the rare glimpses he offered of his life, it was equally turbulent, and I believed that he too found our correspondence to be a convenient escape into which to slip when life had him in over his head.

I assumed him to be a Ravenclaw of middling height, tall and awkward. He was too intelligent to be a Hufflepuff, and his moral compass was far too sound for him to be a Slytherin. He wasn't nearly self-righteous enough to be a Gryffindor. In general, though, I no longer mulled over who the mysterious Padfoot was; had his identity been revealed to me, it would have detracted from the simplicity of our friendship.

I tucked a stray lock behind my ear, and dipped the quill in an inkwell.

_Padfoot,_

_I object very strongly to the name Tiddlywink._

_The reason I haven't been sending you letters recently is because I've found another pen pal. A better one._

_Farewell,_

_Anon_

I paused for a moment, then as an afterthought, scrawled at the bottom:

_P.S. I've begun composing poetry on the spot. It helps me…cope. Am I going insane?_

It was much easier to jokingly claim that I'd found a new confident than it was to express the true extent of my anxiety, and relate the sense of inadequacy and shame that plagued me. This is what Padfoot and I did for each other; we provided each other with a convenient front under which we could disguise our true emotions with light-hearted, nonsensical banter. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that our relationship wasn't healthy.

I sent the owl off, then settled down to make a hot cup of tea. As I retrieved the kettle from the cupboards, I heard my brother's padded footsteps as he descended the stairs. Jon and I were a year apart; he would be entering his 7th year at Hogwarts as a Ravenclaw, and was likely as enthused about it as I was. Despite being naturally intelligent, he'd never been academically inclined, and had few friends at Hogwarts.

But it was more than that—he had a muggle girlfriend that he was seeing behind everyone's backs. The only reason I was privy to this information was because I'd walked in on them snogging in his room. It was far too dangerous for him to be open about their relationship these days, when the word "war" seemed to slip into conversation too easily. It seemed, at times, that the whole world was on edge, as if we were poised on the brink of something that would be great and terrible in equal measure.

As I waited for the pot to boil, I rummaged through the trash bin and found a half-full pack of cigarettes. Trust my mother to hide them there, of all places. I lit up, and let the cigarette dangle between my lips. Jon, who had seated himself at the table behind me, offered no comment. Minutes later, I stubbed it out and set two hot cups of tea on the table. Jon took one between his palms, his brow furrowed in silence.

He and I looked more like cousins than siblings. We both shared the same wide brown eyes, aquiline nose, and unruly straight, black hair. The similarities stopped there. Whereas Jon had filled out, and was broad-chested, I stood 5'6" to his 6'3", and because I often had difficulty maintaining an appetite, I was too skinny, with a tomboyish figure.

Girls looked at Jon and they saw _sex_; boys looked at him and they saw _power_. No one really bothered to look at me.

Jon sipped tentatively from the mug before letting it drop to the table.

"Jesus, that's hot," he said, running a hand through his hair. I shrugged noncommittally. _Obviously, it was hot._ If he wanted to start a conversation after spending the entire summer ignoring my presence, he'd have to find a better opening line than that. The silence stretched on. Jon looked on at me expectantly, as if mentally urging me to say something.

"What?" I finally demanded, slamming my mug down. He flinched, and I nearly felt bad for torturing him like this.

"Look—I hate—I hate that…"

"Yes?" I prompted. I had a sickening feeling that I knew where this conversation was going.

"That you let that _bastard,_that complete piece of _filth_, lay his hands on you and you just _let_ him do it—"

"And what do you propose? Should I find myself a nice muggle boy instead?" He was glowering at me now; that had been a low blow, but I plowed forward anyway. It was petty, I wanted him to feel as uncomfortable as I did. My cheeks were burning. I wasn't proud that I'd let Mulciber touch me, but in a sick sort of way, I felt like it was what I deserved. Jon had no right to lecture me about my insecurity, considering he'd ignored me all summer long, as if I wasn't even his sister. "You know what they say about muggle boys," I continued, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "They have big—"

"Shut up," he hissed. I shrank back instinctively. I'd never pushed him this far before. Jon seemed shocked by my reaction, though, and his anger dissipated. When he opened his mouth again, he sounded almost desperate. "I'm not—Drea, look at me—I'm not going to hurt you—not me—it's him you've got to worry about." He was frowning now, "Merlin, Drea, why do you have to make this so hard? I'm trying to help."

I gazed back at him, wordless.

"I can't fathom what you see in him, anyhow," he went on. "Him and his lot, they aren't going to go anywhere. They won't amount to anything. You think anyone will ever follow behind them, and join their cause? Look at them, Drea. They're scum."

"_Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire_. A fool can always find a bigger fool to follow him," I responded.

He blinked, pleasantly surprised. "So you think they're fools, then?" Was he daft?

"No. I think they're brilliant. Killing mudbloods sounds rather fun," I deadpanned. Jon froze, his cup suspended in midair, his mouth forming a wordless "O".

"You're…you're joking?" he asked hopefully. I sighed, then nodded. "Good…good. Good to know," he said awkwardly, refusing to meet my eyes. I wondered how he knew I'd been with Mulciber yesterday. Had he been the one to let me in last night? I couldn't recall.

I stood, and pushed my chair in. Before turning to leave, I offered one last Parthinian shot.

"You're an idiot, Jon." My voice was choked. Jon looked up, surprised by the tone of my voice. I didn't want to hurt him irrevocably, but it was true. "You think they won't amount to anything? Look outside, Jon. There's a war coming, and I can't help but feel sorry for you."


	2. Awakening

**Two.**  
**Awakening**

Mmm. I was currently experiencing the best feeling known to man: the unbridled joy one feels when they wake up, realize they have nothing immediate that they have to take care of, and discover that they are free to drift back to sleep. I yawned and arched my back, tucking the worn blanket up to my chin, a small half smile on my face. Sunlight filtered through the blinds covering the windows, and the house was quiet. An unexpected thud at the window made my heart skip a beat. I jumped out of bed and pulled the cable to raise the blinds. Bloody hell. I stifled a laugh. Padfoot's mentally deranged owl was squashed up against the glass. I wasn't entirely sure how the owl could possibly be dumb enough to fly directly into a window while the blinds were shut.

I eased the window open and the owl (in all these years, I had yet to inquire as to its name) flopped to the carpeted floor of my room. Perhaps the poor beast had finally tired of its existence and attempted, in a spectacularly comical manner, to off itself. I began to empathize with its plight.

I bit back my laughter and sat cross-legged on the floor next to it.

"Shhh. Hush, now. Shhh, love," I cooed to the owl. It didn't appear to be injured, but rather, its feathers had – literally – been ruffled. The owl seemed to be taking the window's existence personally, and squawked angrily at it, aggressively advancing toward the glass pane to engage in a territorial battle with its inanimate foe. I coaxed it into my lap and stroked it feathers until it was calm enough for me to safely extract the parcel clutched in its talons.

_Dear Ms. Ymous_

_(Get it? Anon Ymous. Anonymous. Ms. Ymos. I'm very clever, aren't I?)_

_I see how it is. You've found someone better to write to? Well, so have I. You'll come crawling back, though. I'm sure of it. No one figuratively breaks my heart and gets away with it. I say figuratively, because if I'd literally meant "my heart is broken," that would imply that I was lying in St. Mungos, dying. Which, I am glad to inform you, I am not._

_The poetry thing is a bit odd. Then again, you're likely very odd as well, so by all means, if it's an effective coping mechanism, then who am I to judge? (Hint: your ex-pen pal, that's who.)_

_Eternally Yours,_

_Padfoot_

I snorted. It was too early in the morning for me to compose a coherent response. The letter lay next to me on the pillow as I rested a few minutes longer. I was well and truly awake now, and sleep wouldn't come over me easily. Frustrated, I swung my feet out of bed and headed to the bathroom to get ready for the day. An hour or so later, I found myself sitting across the kitchen table from my brother, who gazed sullenly down into his bowl of cereal. We hadn't spoken since yesterday morning when I'd stormed off, so I was startled when he broke the awkward silence that had descended upon us.

"How do you feel about heading to Diagon Alley today? Term starts next week. We'd best get our supplies soon."

I nodded. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as you finish." He gestured to my half-eaten bowl. I pushed it aside, and followed his retreating form into the living room. A pinch of floo powder each, and we were stumbling out of a fireplace into the wizarding quarter of London. Jon and I quickly parted ways, and I set out to Flourish & Blotts to purchase a new set of quills. I perused the cramped isles, navigating my way between stacks of aged books and rolls of fresh parchment. As I surveyed the selection of quills, a pair of arms snuck around my waist from behind. I stiffened instinctively.

"Krupp," a voice growled into my ear. Mulciber turned his head to press a kiss to my cheek. He gripped my arms hard enough to bruise, and very nearly dragged me out of the store. I held myself limp in his grasp. He'd treated me roughly before but he never went too far in public unless I provoked him. It was better to go along with whatever he had in mind and avoid any punishment he might choose to dole out.

Something about being near him made me apathetic to the world. It was as if I shut down in his presence, and the very air was stolen from my corrupted lungs.

"Look who I found inside," Mulciber laughed, directing his attention to a group of boys lounging by the store front. I glanced at the group. It was the usual crowd, comprised of Avery and Mulciber's desperate cronies, but there was one face it took me an extra moment to recognize. This boy didn't usually follow Avery and Mulciber around the way the rest of them did, or I would have recalled his name right away. He had startling blue eyes under a shaggy mop of black hair, and a 5 o'clock shadow dusting his chiseled cheeks. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and carried himself with an air of confidence. He noticed that I was gazing at him intently, and a smirk stole across his features.

"Hullo, Krupp," Avery drawled and clapped me on the back. I said nothing.

"We were discussing my ascension," Mulciber chipped in, sounding very pleased.

"Sorry?" I asked, confused. He rolled up his sleeve. _Merlin. _Inked into his skin was the insignia of the Dark Lord. A snake coiled around a skull, emerging from its deathly grin. "Oh," I muttered. "That's…brilliant. Congratulations." A pit formed in my stomach. I'd always known this day would come, but in my mind I'd visualized it as occurring in the far future. He was a Death Eater. My complete lack of a visceral response to this revelation cemented the fact that I was no longer emotionally attached to Mulciber. It was both horrifying and relieving in equal measure. He'd been a permanent fixture in my life, a rock I could depend on to remain steady. It was true that our interaction generally left me feeling awful, but there was a small measure of comfort to be derived from the consistency of our relationship even as the world around us changed.

"Of course it's brilliant," he scowled. "You wouldn't understand. This is the dawn of a new era. We're going to reclaim what's rightfully ours and make amends. We're going to carry out the teaching of Salzar Slytherin, and right the wrongs done to us by the thousands of mudbloods that are destroying the purity of magic." I was beginning to think that he'd rehearsed this in front of a mirror. Mulciber would be furious if he realized I found his enthusiasm to be amusing. I coughed loudly, and the boy I didn't recognize caught my eye. I could swear there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as well, but he said nothing.

It was bizarre to find humor in this situation, when it should have been terrifying.

"Right with you, mate," Avery responded. "This is our birthright, and the world will suffer should they try to stop us from fulfilling our destiny." This time, the boy coughed. I caught his eye again, and he arched an eyebrow. Mulciber followed my gaze and scowled. He tightened his grasp on my arm and I struggled not to wince. When he spoke, his voice was frighteningly calm.

"I think she likes you, Black," he said to the boy.

"No," I whispered hoarsely, sensing where this was going. Then louder. "No, no, of course not, Mul." I shook my head vehemently, attempting to smile up at him. "Of course not," I repeated. "There's no one for me but you – "

"You can have a go at her if you'd like, Regulus," Mulciber ignored my feeble protests and continued speaking to the boy. His vice-like grip on my arm tightened further.

"Mul, please. You're hurting me. Please," I said. He could be cruel, but not to me. On some level, he did care for me. I knew he did. There was no way that after two years of being with him he didn't care.

He ignored me. "What do you say, Reg? She's feisty." My heart thudded loudly in my chest. I was beginning to feel faint. He wasn't really going to let anyone do this to me, was he? Not here in Diagon Alley where anyone could walk by at a moment's notice. Regulus Black smirked, and pushed himself off the wall. He walked towards me slowly.

"I'm game," he said, simply. I was shaking now, and Mulciber noticed. He chuckled.

"Relax, Mutt. Look, is this what you're so worried about?" He wrenched the Hogwarts supply list that I'd been clutching out of my hand, and brandished it in the air. "I can take care of this. I always take care of you, don't I, darling?" he asked, then turned and barked, "Pinky!" With a loud crack, an aged house elf appeared. Mulciber dug into his pocket and retrieved a bag of coins, and tossed it to the elf along with the supplies list. "Fetch," he said to the elf. The poor elf nodded and disapparated with another loud crack, avoiding Mulciber's well-placed kick by a split-second. He turned to me. "See? I always do right by you, Drea. The least you can do is show my friend Reg here a good time." He shoved me towards him, and Regulus caught me against his chest.

I began to wake up, then. It was as if someone had flicked on a switch in my mind, and I could feel pinpricks of warmth beginning to flow back into my body. I wasn't a nobody. Treating me like this was wrong. This was wrong. I deserved better – maybe I didn't deserve anything good, but at the very least, I didn't deserve this. I had a friend – a friend who wrote me letters, and a brother who cared when he could be bothered to. I didn't deserve this – not _this_ –

Regulus grazed his lips against mine. He'd stooped down so that there were scarcely inches between our faces, and brought his hands up to cup my elbows gently.

And that was it. He stepped back, and I pulled away simultaneously. It had only been a feather light touch. I didn't understand what he was playing at. Was he trying to mess with my head, or was he trying to be a gentleman? Either way, at that moment, I didn't care. I despised the lot of them. At long last, after enduring two years of Mulciber's bullshit, something inside me had snapped. He'd finally gone too far. Avery was laughing, as were the rest of them. My face burned, not with shame, but with fury. Mulciber moved to take my hand, and I stumbled backwards.

"Come on, love. It was just a game. I wouldn't really have let him – "

His eyes widened. I'd whipped my wand out, and pressed it to his throat. Mulciber looked momentarily surprised, and for a brief moment, I saw a spark of fear dance in his eyes. As it quickly as it appeared, it was extinguished. He knocked the wand out of my hands, and it clattered to my feet. His face twisted into a sneer. _Crack! _I hit the ground hard, blinking furiously to prevent tears from spilling down my face. He'd backhanded me. Mulciber stood over me, his feet plated shoulder-width apart.

"Now," he said, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "You are going to apologize, and we'll put this incident behind us." He smiled down at me. I heaved a breath, and rubbed a hand over my eyes, dangerously close to tears.

"Fuck. You." I spat out, grabbed my wand, and stood up. He looked shocked, and looked on slack-jawed and I turned my heel and sprinted away.

* * *

"She was not beautiful, but you could not shake your troubled eyes from her eclipsing sun."

Padfoot was right – the impromptu poetry was odd. _I_ was odd. I thrilled at the notion of being odd. Odd meant different. Odd meant there were qualities that distinguished me – that I was more than the hollow shell I'd been the past few years. Every breath I took was painful. My chest constricted as I went through the process; coaxing my body back to life, and teaching myself how to breathe. It was as if I was a drowned girl resurfacing from the depths of sea, in awe of the world around her. I relaxed in the tub, my hair splayed out behind me, and raised a trembling hand to trace the smile upon my lips, trying to familiarize myself with this new emotion I was experiencing.

I'd been walking on a ledge. A precipitously thin strip of earth that went one way: forward. I'd been terrified to fall, and unaware of what the chasm below held for me – but Mulciber himself had pushed me off. He had been my future; he had been what I'd been steadily walking towards. The future had been bleak, but it had been known. I would do as I was bid, quietly, without reserve. But suddenly, the great unknown gaped before me. I had never felt so exhilarated in my life. I was drunk on adrenaline, but I resolved to myself that this change in my mentality would be final. There was no going back now, for this had been coming for a long while. My previous state of being had been insubstantial. It was if I'd been alive without ever truly _living_.

A sharp rap on the bathroom door disrupted my thoughts.

"Drea, you in there?" It was Jon. Fuck, I'd completely forgotten to tell him I'd come back home without him. I wondered if he was angry. I cleared my throat.

"Yeah, it's me." There was silence for a few moments, then I heard his footsteps as he walked away. Poor Jon. I climbed out of the bath, dripping wet, and having wrapped myself in a towel, padded into my room. After digging through the laundry, I pulled on a tee with a Vonnegut quote on it ("The universe is big, possibly the biggest thing there is.") and frayed shorts, then lit a cigarette and sat down on my bed. A thought had occurred to me. If I wanted to get back at Mulciber (forthwith to be known as "that little shit"), there was something truly brilliant I could do. It would be insidious. It would hurt him from the inside out, much like he'd damaged me.

I was _sick_. Sick of being used, sick of being treated like a helpless child, sick of being told what to do and being expected to comply. Sick of being humiliated and pawned off to that little shit's friends every time he wanted to make a point.

It was time he learned that. On a whim, I gathered some stationary and sat down to write.

_Padfoot,_

_I've come crawling back. Please forgive me._

_I'm ecstatically happy and horrifically scared right now. I've done something wonderfully terrible and I'm very happy and angry with myself. The awful and beautiful thing about what I've just done is that it's going to shift the scale by which I measure life. My baseline's drifted so I'll be open to either new heights of exuberance or despair. I'm vaguely confused right now, if you couldn't tell._

_There is one emotion that's definite: fear. I'm afraid that come tomorrow, I'll be scared of what I've done, and any joy it's brought me will fade away until I'm forced to deal with the negative consequences of my actions. But something's occurred to me that would make this fear an impossibility. I've realized there's something I could do to ensure I reap the positive benefits of the risk I took today. But doing this would be an even bigger risk._

_I think I might be crazy for even considering this. It's so beyond the scope of anything I've ever done - I mean, it's absolutely batshit insane to even think about it, but here I am, and I'm on the verge of doing it. I don't think I've adequately conveyed how truly mediocre I am. It hasn't really come up in our conversations. I do what I'm told. I attend school, wear a uniform, let my parents pick out my classes, and avoid confrontation. But do you know that saying? I can't remember it precisely - but it's about greatness. About how people rise to greatness when they're called on? And how its circumstance that shapes a human being. I want that to be me. I'm angry. I'm so very angry at what I see going on around me, and about what's happened to me. For once, I'm not angry at myself. I'm angry at the people that caused this. I'm angry at them for thinking it's their right. I want to change this - I want to stop them. I know I'll never be able to do much, but I can do _some_. _

_But some won't really help, unless everyone does some. But what if everyone's as scared as I am, and no one does anything. I don't know. I don't even know what I'm writing right now. I don't know I don't know I don't know. Do I have it in me to do this?_

_So here's the question I'm proposing: yes or no? If you could write back quickly, that would be lovely._

_Yours,_

_Anon_

_P.S. Has your owl returned home safe? It's a bit of an idiot – crashed into my window this morning._

I wrote in the postscript after rereading the letter and realizing that it was much too serious to be congruous with the rest of our correspondence. I hoped it would lighten the heavy mood of my letter. I wondered if Padfoot would laugh at me. What if he thought this was a bit too much and stopped writing? Would it scare him off? In any case, I had no one else to turn too. Before I could over complicate the matter further, I sent my family owl, Hodgins, off with the letter, and then sat about smoking one cigarette after another, contemplating my options. Hodgins returned four cigarettes and a two hour nap later with a letter clutched in his beak.

_Anon,_

_Yes. Most definitely._

_Yours,_

_Padfoot_

_P.S. I resent the notion that Lilliput (my owl) is an idiot. That was unnecessarily rude._

I set aside the letter and made up my mind. I was going to do this...and not just for myself. If I wanted to give my life a purpose and aspire to something other than waking up every morning, trying to remind myself to breathe, and forcing myself to go about living as if I were an automaton, _this_ would be the way to do it. I made up my mind and rushed down the stairs. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, and looked up curiously. I raised a hand in greeting.

"I'm going out, Mum," I said. She nodded absentmindedly and continued reading the paper. Typical. I was about to risk my life by dedicating it to a rebel cause, but she was too busy reading the paper to ask me where I was going. I went out to the garden and took my wand out of my back pocket, concentrating hard on my destination. Then came the sickening, lurching feeling of being squeezed through a tube, and I found myself standing in a deserted graveyard. Night was falling fast, and I hurried along, spooked by the aged gravestones and all encompassing silence.

Once I'd left the graveyard, it didn't take much time for me to get myself hopelessly lost. Every house looked equally quaint and well-maintained, and so I had no idea which one I was searching for. I'd thought maybe that the residence I was searching for would have a sign by the gate, the way most ancient families did, but in this village there were none to be found. It was dark out now, and I was shivering in my shorts and tee shirt, feeling increasingly frustrated by the minute. This was not how I'd pictured my grand scheme. I grabbed a cigarette out of my pocket. I wasn't really in the mood for a smoke, but I'd feel better with one in my hand.

"Incendio," I waved my wand. It didn't light. Frustrated, I tried again. It didn't work.

"Fuck," I choked out. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, just please give me this one thing." My hands were shaking and I nearly dropped the cigarette. "I-incendio," I stuttered, trying unsuccessfully to light it.

"Incendio," a deep voice said from nearby. A flash of light, then my cigarette lit up. Which wasn't really as helpful as it sounds, because I jumped about a foot when I'd heard the voice and dropped my cigarette. I turned aro-und, my wand raised.

"Oh," I said, when I saw who it was. I recognized him – who didn't? The infamous Sirius Black, "Marauder," and one of the most popular boys at Hogwarts. Accompanied by none other than James Potter. Sirius offered me a sheepish grin.

"You look lost. Let me take you inside," he offered, gesturing elaborately towards a nearby door. I blanched. Was he flirting with me?

"No," Potter said, stumbling forward. "I live here, so I get to be the host. May I invite you inside, m'lady?" He bowed. Oh, Merlin. They were drunk. Black seemed offended by Potter having stolen his line, and expressed his annoyance by punching him.

I blinked, surprised. Well, that had escalated quickly.

"Hullo," I said, attempting to regain their attention. They continued laughing and falling about. Oh god, this had been a terrible idea – these two were incompetent idiots. A third boy emerged from the house. Remus Lupin. He looked slightly ill to start with, but looked even more so when he caught sight of me.

"You – you're that Slytherin girl," he slurred. "What're you doing here?" Behind us, Sirius Black had James Potter in a headlock. Black relinquished his grip on his friend to stare. Was this really happening?

"Wait, you're a Slytherin? What the _fuck_ are you doing here?" he asked.

"To think," Potter added in mock horror, "I nearly invited a Slytherin into Godric's Hollow." I ignored his theatrics.

"I want to help," I blurted out. Lupin looked at me strangely.

"Help…? Er, with what?" Lupin was the only one still interested, now. Apparently my last answer hadn't been interesting enough, so the other two had gone back to play fighting and resumed laughing rather obnoxiously.

"Y-you know," I stuttered. "That whole…thing. That whole bringing down Voldemort thing?"

The laughter stopped. That was the exact moment when three attractive teenage boys turned to me and simultaneously said the three words every girl longs to hear:

"What the fuck?"

Alright, maybe not.


	3. Awkward Arguments

******Three.**  
Awkward Arguments

"_I want to help," I blurted out. Lupin looked at me strangely._

"_Help…? Er, with what?" Lupin was the only one still interested, now. Apparently my last answer hadn't been interesting enough, so the other two had gone back to play fighting and resumed laughing rather obnoxiously._

"_Y-you know," I stuttered. "That whole…thing. That whole bringing down Voldemort thing?"_

_The laughter stopped. That was the exact moment when three attractive teenage boys turned to me and simultaneously said the three words every girl longs to hear:_

"_What the fuck?"_

_Alright, maybe not._

* * *

We were sitting cross-legged in a circle, and Potter had the magic pillow. Ergo, he spoke first.

"We have gathered here today to address a series of statements made by the defendant, who is an odd looking Slytherin chick that I've placed dibs on—"

"Andrea," I cut in. "My name is Andrea."

Potter glared. "Do you have the pillow? No. So be quiet."

After I'd stupidly claimed to want to help them defeat the Dark Lord, they'd gaped at me for a full minute. Their shock had faded away quickly, but I'd swear that for a split-second, Lupin and Potter had exchanged an odd glance. They'd quickly resumed laughing and being riotously drunk, though, and then ushered me inside with smiles, assuring me in that we had much to discuss.

I'd been wary, but I'd agreed because I had mistakenly believed that they'd taken my request seriously. As of yet, our "discussion" had constituted to a quick meeting where Potter had decided that the three of them would collectively decide "what was to be done with me."

He'd led me through the house and selected the rug by the hearth in the study as the location for his "meeting." The interior of the house was breathtaking. Money was scarce in my household, and we never spent to excess. The room we were currently seated in, however, was the epitome of excess. A golden chandelier glittered overhead, and a thick, Persian rug covered the hardwood floor. Towering shelves overflowed with books and parchment, and the walls were adorned with commissioned family portraits. It was startling to see the way ancient families like the Potters lived.

"Right, so, where was I?" Potter asked, running a hand through his unruly black hair. "Series of statements made by _Andrea_, blah blah blah, the prosecutor, Remus Lupin, shall speak to the court presently…hm! We come to the crux of the matter: 'I want to help with that whole bringing down Voldemort thing!'" He brandished his wand in the air as if it were a gavel, and turned to me. "Now, what did you mean by that?"

Lupin stifled a yawn. Potter had kept up his theatrics for far too long, and his friends had lost interest. While Potter had been speaking, Black had given up all pretense of paying attention and was lying on his stomach, his head propped up on one arm. He was doodling patterns on the rug with his finger. Bottles of empty firewhiskey were scattered across the room. It seemed as if they'd been playing a heavy drinking game before I'd arrived at their doorstep. I supposed that Potter had invited his friends over (minus Pettrigrew—I wonder why he wasn't present?) to celebrate the start of term.

The over-confidence and excitement that I'd felt earlier were fading away rapidly. I was painfully self conscious and felt reluctant to explain myself to them. I was a trespasser in this beautiful house, with its beautiful residents. The anxiety that always plagued me was beginning to creep through my body.

I took a shallow breath. "I—I want to assist you," I stuttered. I was met with silence, so I continued. "The war…it's just—it's beginning to feel inevitable, isn't it? Like it's coming closer every day. And I hate that." I bit my lip, unsure of how to continue. Potter was nodding thoughtfully, but the blank look on his face and his bloodshot eyes made it clear that nothing I'd said had really registered with him. I was quite sure that Lupin had fallen asleep on the rug. Black wasn't paying attention.

Seeing my reluctance to continue, Potter uncorked a bottle lying next to him and handed it to me; I gratefully accepted.

I took a tentative sip and nearly dropped the bottle. It _burned._

"Easy there," he chuckled. I swirled the bottle, and the amber liquid within seemed to spark. Whatever this was, it was enchanted. I took a smaller sip and cleared my throat.

"You were saying?" Potter prompted.

"Just that I hate sitting here waiting for it to finally happen." My voice shook. I stared at the ground as I spoke, too uncomfortable to meet his eyes.

"It?"

"The war," I said, feeling certain that I sounded foolish. I took another swig. This wasn't run of the mill firewhiskey. I could feel the drink spreading through my body, warming me and making me feel tipsy.

"You seem so certain that there'll be a war." His voice had taken on a hard edge, and his words weren't slurred. I looked up, surprised, but he'd turned away and was examining his drink.

"Oh, there _will_ be a war," I said softly, thinking back to the Dark Mark etched into Mulciber's skin. "And so, if possible, I want to help…" Potter looked up, confused. "You _do_ have a plan, don't you?" I asked.

"Er, that's the thing, really…we don't," Lupin broke in, his voice groggy with sleep.

"You don't have a plan?" I asked, turning towards him. A look of surprise stole across my features.

"Don't plan on going up against him," he corrected. "The Dark Lord, I mean. You seem to be taking it for granted that we do." Potter was nodding emphatically. Black seemed to be listening as well now, and he fixed me with his piercing grey eyes. My mind flashed back to this morning when I'd encountered his brother. I shuddered involuntarily and downed my drink.

I could feel my scheme crumbling around me. _Stupid stupid stupid_, I chastised myself. "I don't understand." I bit my lip. "Why did you bother inviting me in?"

Lupin looked a bit sheepish now, and cast around for an excuse. "Well…you're rather hot." I stared at him incredulously.

"Erm, in an alternative way," Potter clarified. But I was sure that what they really meant was that my presence here had been permitted for the sake of their entertainment.

"I don't see it," Black drawled to his friends. It was the first time he'd spoken since we'd come indoors. I felt my face flush.

"Or at least, you seemed hot before you started speaking and I realized you were, er, mental," Lupin ignored them and said.

"…Realized I was mental?" I echoed, confused. I was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that I was standing in the middle of an elaborate study clad in nothing but a baggy old t-shirt and jeans cut offs, whereas the three boys around me were elegantly dressed and appeared to be completely at ease. I stood up, desperately needing to put some distance between myself and them.

"You have to look at it through our eyes," Lupin said. "We hear someone cursing outside at night, so we go out to see who it is…and it's some random Slytherin chick who supposedly wants to team up with us to fight the Dark Lord." He coughed. "Are you okay?"

I stared at him numbly.

"I think what my good friend Remus is trying to ask is whether or not you're high," Potter chirped helpfully. Black scoffed and walked over to one of the bookshelves, feigning interest in the books. Potter shot him a condescending look, and he chuckled.

"I'm not high," I muttered, wishing I was anywhere but here.

"Er, then what exactly are you doing here?" Potter asked.

_What a loaded question._ I struggled to express my thoughts. "I'm angry at the way things are, but I know that even if I try to change things, my actions alone won't amount to much…" I trailed off, realizing I sounded blindly idealistic and foolish. Black had accidentally knocked a stack of parchment off a shelf, and turned to glare at me as if I'd caused it to happen. I shook off his gaze and turned to face Potter, determined to explain my thought process prior to arriving unannounced at his doorstep.

"You…you're James Potter. Your best friend is a blood traitor," I gestured to Black, "and the whole school knows you're in love with a muggle born. And…and you're a Gryffindor. A self-righteous Gryffindor." _And Mulciber despises you_, I added to myself. I was blinking furiously, and was embarrassed to hear that my own voice was thick with tears. "You have everything to lose. If _you_ aren't planning on doing anything, who is?"

Potter looked terrified by the prospect of a girl crying within a hundred yards of him. "Do you think you're going to cry? Because, um, we could give you some space," he nodded at his friends.

I could scarcely hear him; I was still struggling to deal with the overwhelming feeling of defeat that was washing over me. This had seemed like a sure bet. I'd foolishly believed that this was the perfect place to start. I'd thought that if I could firmly plant myself on the other side of the spectrum as Mulciber and his group, then I'd never fall back into his hands. I wouldn't be dependent on his false proclamations of love; I wouldn't passively lie there as he slid his calloused hands up my bare thighs, or shut my eyes to hide my revulsion when he pressed his lips to mine. But now I was faced with the sobering truth: there _was_ no other side.

"Look, we're just teenagers," Lupin sounded incredulous. He was peering at me anxiously from beneath his shaggy brown locks of hair. "It's a week before school starts and we want to get drunk. We don't want to fight in a _war_. We aren't soldiers."

I nodded. My eyes were shut. I'd been stupid to come here.

"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I'm so…_shit_. This was a mistake."

Potter was visibly uncomfortable now, and kept messing with his glasses. I shied away from his pitying gaze.

"I'm going to go…um, pee. And make a Sobriety Solution. Come and see my new cauldron, Remus." He grabbed his friend's arm and hurriedly exited the room. I realized that he was trying to give me some space. Black lingered a moment longer, then headed for the door as well.

I felt numb. I knew I was overreacting, on some level. This entire situation was bizarre. I hadn't been thinking rationally, and normally I would have found that humiliating, but for some reason, I didn't particularly care what anyone thought of me at the moment. They were right to think I was mental. The fact that I'd come here blindly expecting to be taken into the confidence of James Potter was inexcusably stupid on my part.

The drink had made me feel light-headed and slightly nauseous. I made my way to a couch by the hearth and collapsed, lying on my back. The ceiling spun before my eyes, and the chandelier's hundred candles were blurry splotches of light. I wanted nothing more than to apparate out of here, but I didn't want to risk splinching myself in this state.

I took deep breaths, trying to clear my head, but my throat was choked up. Inexplicably, I found myself laughing at the absurdity of the situation I'd gotten myself into.

"Oh god," I gasped as I laughed, "what did I just do?" I'd gone from being distraught to finding humor in my situation within the span of a few minutes.

Someone coughed behind me. I rolled over, surprised, and peaked over the edge of the couch. Sirius Black was in the doorway, lounging against the frame. I wondered how long he'd been there. He was even taller than his brother. His black hair was tousled, and his lips curved into a wry smirk. _Had he been here the whole time?_

"You really are mental, aren't you?"

I didn't know what to say. Rarely, if ever, did I speak to boys. I let them speak to me, and then I whispered back what I thought they wanted to hear in response. But I'd already majorly fucked this up by coming here and saying what I'd truly felt—and look where that had gotten me. I was surrounded by people that thought I was insane. I was exhausted, and tipsy and desperately wanted a smoke. _Fuck it_, I thought. I was too tired to put on a pretense, too tired to admit that I felt inadequate in Black's presence, and too tired to deal with any of this right now. I decided to be bluntly honest with him, and damn the consequences.

"A bit," I nodded. "In a few hours I'll probably feel truly humiliated. For now I think I'm kind of in shock?"

My frank response seemed to surprise him. "What for?"

"This whole thing." I gestured around me. "I'm in James Potter's house. I don't think I've ever spoken to him before today. I don't think he'd ever really _looked _at me before today. You wouldn't know, because I doubt you recognize me either, but…I don't talk much. And I never talk about myself. The fact that I am right now is a bit…out of character."

"You're drunk," he said flatly.

"Probably," I surprised myself by responding. Black arched an eyebrow. He looked eerily like Regulus, but whereas Regulus had been boyishly attractive, Sirius was made up of stark lines and sculpted planes. His presence was imposing.

Silence fell between us. I lay back and attempted to relax and clear my head. As soon as I was well enough, I'd go home and sleep. I wondered if Jon was worried about me. It was nearing 12AM. My mother probably hadn't noticed that I'd failed to return, and my father would likely remain at work until the wee hours of the morning.

"Remus was wrong," Black said, breaking the silence. His jaw was clenched. I must've looked confused, because he went on to explain himself. "He thinks you're some average Slytherin chick." He looked disgusted. "But you're not. I couldn't see you properly outside, but I recognized you as soon as we came in."

He was pacing, his hands clenched at his side, but he stopped abruptly and fixed me with his glare.

"You're not some random Slytherin girl," he repeated angrily. "You're a Slytherin _whore_."

I flinched. It was as if he'd slapped me. His stark assessment of me shook me to my core. I'd reveled in being called odd, in thinking I was different. But apparently, even total strangers defined me by my relationship with Mulciber. Was that all I was? A Syltherin plaything? A _whore? _I pressed my face into the warm back of the couch, breathing in the faint scent of musk and smoke that clung to it.

In the past few hours, I'd constructed an illusion in my mind. One where I was free to make a new name for myself and pursue my own desires. With that one word—"whore"—Black had shattered that illusion and brought me tumbling back to reality.

"I want to know why you're really here," Black spat.

I took a shuddering breath. _What could he possibly mean by that?_ I raised my head and twisted in my seat to look at him. Whatever he saw in my eyes must've made Black sense that he'd said too much, because he broke eye contact quickly.

"Don't look at me like that," he snapped, his voice terse. He raked a hand through his hair and resumed pacing back and forth. "Don't play the fucking victim. It's pathetic." He sounded pissed, but more hesitant.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mumbled.

"You and I both know this is all a bullshit façade," he pointed squarely at me. "So you're going to tell me the truth. And stop—stop fucking looking at me like that. I'm not going to hurt you," he growled.

Hurt me? But he was wrong—he'd already hurt me. _Whore, victim, pathetic, liar._ What right did he have to call me those names? I'd come here with good intentions. Why was I giving his words credence?

…Because they rang true. It physically hurt to admit it. The reason his insults were so painful was that they were grounded in reality. I did play the victim. I passively accepted whatever happened to me without ever taking an active role in my life, and then wallowed in self-pity. I wasted time feeling helpless, blaming my problems on the people around me, and even composing poetry, instead of dealing with my problems. I was pathetic—and I was angry at Sirius Black, of all people, for making me come to terms with this. I despised him for it.

I pulled myself up to sitting position. If he was going to force me to confront my shortcomings, then I'd do him that favor as well.

"You and your brother are both talented at making people feel like shit," I said, ignoring his senseless questions. My words had their expected affect. It was common knowledge that Sirius Black was estranged from his family, and was considered a blood traitor. If Regulus was hanging about the likes of Mulciber, then I couldn't imagine that Sirius approved of his brother.

"My brother? What the hell?" He sounded genuinely shocked, and his anger had disappeared from his voice.

"I met your brother today," I said, rising from the couch. "You're very similar. You're both keen on trying to frighten and intimidate girls, for example."

His face turned white. "Reg and I are nothing alike. He's…he's a misguided idiot. A pawn."

"And you're not? You do what's expected of you. You'll do whatever it takes to maintain your nonchalant, care-free image that makes you popular." I was aware that I sounded petty and jealous, but I was too angry to care.

He smirked. "What's your problem? I don't even know you and you're trying to psychoanalyze me or some shit. I take myself seriously, as do my friends."

"That," I laughed, "is bullshit. Pure, unadulterated bullshit in its most basic form. For some unfathomable reason, you and your imbecilic friends are considered to be some of the brightest in our year—but here you are, sitting about, getting drunk, as if you don't realize that a war is coming."

"Can you fucking hear yourself? You keep talking about this supposed war. Wake the hell up – there's no war." He stepped closer so that we were barely a foot apart. It occurred to me briefly that half the girls at Hogwarts would kill to be this close to Sirius Black, but under vastly different circumstances.

"There are already students that are Death Eaters," I spat at him. "And the brightest students in my year apparently have nothing planned to prevent them from harming others?"

This knowledge was new to him, I could tell. I don't think he could've been more surprised if I'd accused him of being one himself.

"Is…is Regulus a Death Eater? Is that why you're here? Does…does he want you to spy on me?" He sounded horrified. I almost felt bad for him. As shitty of a brother as Jon was, he had his heart in the right place, whereas Regulus and Sirius didn't seem to have each other's best interests at heart. I felt a slight twinge of regret for claiming they were alike.

I shook my head, attempting to put his worries to rest. "I don't think so."

He looked immensely relieved, and his shoulders sagged for a moment. "Then who at Hogwarts is a Death Eater? You're bluffing," he scoffed.

"Why do you care? According to you, there's no war coming—and even if there were, you'd be too busy getting drunk and wasting time with your friends to do anything—"

"Shut up," he muttered, his jaw clenched. _Oh, so this was a sensitive spot?_

"You're _insubstantial. _You'll be replaced, Black, when someone newer and better looking comes along. Do you think your friends will care about you then?" I knew I'd gone too far, but he'd made me take a good hard look at myself, and I'd hated what I'd seen.

I lashed out childishly. "What have you achieved? What do you have to show for yourself? Popularity? And you think _I'm_ pathetic—"

"Shut up," he hissed, grabbing my shoulders and wrenching me forward. "You have no fucking clue what you're talking about," he growled.

The gap between us had closed. We were scarcely inches apart. He was a good six inches taller than me, and I had to look up to speak to him. My breath hitched in my throat. Merlin, his eyes really were something.

Normally, being in such close proximity to someone like Black would reduce me to a puddle of anxiety. Hell, normally, I wouldn't have been able to carry on a conversation with him at all. Today hadn't been normal, though. I'd met both the Black brothers, and I had no interest in ever seeing either of them again. My anger deflated.

I place my hands against his chest and shoved. "You're hurting me," I told him. He relinquished his grip on me, and I stumbled backwards.

"I—I'm just…" I trailed off. Black was staring resolutely at a spot on the wall to my left, refusing to meet my eyes. "I'm done," I bit out. "I'm very, very, done."

He nodded and turned away. I sighed and wandered back over to the couch, and just like that, the tension between us disappeared. I wondered if he was as exhausted as I was. This felt like the longest day of my life. After a second, Black left the room without another word.

Potter waltzed in moments later, looking decidedly more sober, and pressed a glass of a foul smelling liquid into my hands. I sniffed it suspiciously, and then downed it. _Eugrh._

He smirked at the disgusted look on my face. "Tastes like shit, doesn't it? Alas, that's the price we pay when we decide to get drunk."

I grimaced. A Sobriety Solution condensed all the effects of a hangover in the space of a few seconds. The potion's side effects wore off quickly though, and seconds later, despite having a dull headache, my head was clear.

"I'm gonna go," I said, getting to my feet. "Thanks for the potion, and um, hearing me our earlier." Potter nodded. "And you're right, I was, er, a bit mental earlier."

"We've all been there," Potter assured me. _We've all approached total strangers and tried to form an alliance against the Dark Lord with them? _I shot him a disbelieving look, and he laughed.

"Alright, maybe we haven't all been there. But this was an off day, don't beat yourself up about it, I suppose?"

I laughed. Potter was much less irritating when he was sober. "Listen, is there any chance we could, um…"

"Pretend this never happened?" he supplied.

"Yes, that," I said gratefully.

"Absolutely," he laughed. "And don't worry, I'll get Remus and Sirius to go along with that as well."

I nodded my thanks, set the empty glass down, and raised a hand in farewell.

"Bye," he grinned, as I apparated.

I landed a few feet from my bed. Never before in my life had it looked so welcoming. I crawled in, determined to sleep for twelve hours or more.

I'd earned it.

* * *

**A/N:** Blegh I am really unhappy with this chapter. The only writing I really do is essays for school and all, so I don't have much experience writing dialogue. BUT ANYWAY, THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING :D **Please tell me what you think! Revieeeew!** It makes me super happy every time I get a review hehe.


	4. A Pleasant Interlude

**Four.**  
**A Pleasant Interlude**

"Don't be weird."

I laughed. "Alright, I won't be weird."

"I'm fucking serious, Drea – don't mess this up," Jon insisted.

"Yessir," I gave him a mock salute and clicked my heels together.

He whipped around and gave me a glare. "I'm doing you a favor, here, okay? I have a reputation to maintain."

I blinked. "Er…what exactly is your rep, Jon?" He groaned and rolled his eyes. "No, I'm serious," I said, biting back a laugh. "I've never really hung out with your friends before. Clue me in. What's your rep?"

"Just shut up," he growled and pushed the door to the compartment open. I tried to peer around him and catch a glimpse of his friends, but Jon blocked the doorway with his broad frame.

"Hey, guys," he shrugged nonchalantly. "I've, er, brought someone with me." He edged to the side so the people inside could see me. "This is Drea," he said. I bit my lip nervously, suddenly at a loss for words.

This had been my idea in the first place. I'd pledged to myself that I'd turn over a new leaf and be marginally normal for once. Since I'd had nowhere to start, I'd begged and pleaded with Jon until he'd agreed to introduce me to his friends. And so, here we were on the Hogwarts Express with Jon grudgingly permitting me to meet his schoolmates.

Jon coughed loudly and elbowed me.

"Hi," I squeaked. I surveyed the compartment quickly. Wait a moment – bloody hell – I recognized these people. Marlene McKinnon, Argo Fallon, and Edric Lukin? Fucking hell, was Jon _popular? _And if not, how in hell had he befriended some of the most well-known 7th years at Hogwarts?

Marlene McKinnon gave me a once over, taking in my (somewhat tame) hair, and too-short robes. I resisted the urge to flinch.

"Approved," she finally said, then waved the two of us in. I entered and sat down next to Argo with a dazed expression on my face.

"I kinda like this," Marlene said. "A 6th year in our midst. It's like we're switching it up."

Argo nodded thoughtfully. Which must've been quite a challenge for him, for it was widely accepted at Hogwarts that Argo Fallon, despite being blessed with Adonis-like good looks, was painfully lacking in mental capacities.

"Yeah, man, where'd you meet her?" he asked Jon.

Jon scoffed. "She's my baby sister."

I didn't like them talking about me as if I wasn't there, but I didn't particularly know what to say. None of the rest of them seemed to sense the awkwardness though, because they immediately started up a conversation about Quidditch.

"It was clearly a foul! He hit the bludger into the stands for fuck's sake," Edric explained.

"Nah, he was aiming for the Harpy's seeker, but she feinted left and the bludger ended up in the crowd," Jon said. He was animated and had a spark in his eyes. I'd never seen him like this before. Normally Jon wandered about the house in his boxers brooding about life and just generally being angsty, or spent his time snogging his muggle girlfriend. But now he kept throwing appreciative glances at Marlene, who was pretending not to notice. When she finally did look up to acknowledge them, he blushed but kept his gaze steady and broke out into a grin.

"Bullshit," Argo responded. "It was an illegal move and you know it, Jon. Everyone knows your love for the Cannons is a bit abnormal – you're gay for the Chaser, aren't you?"

"Jon's not gay," Marlene laughed, toying with a lock of her hair.

"Only for Quidditch players, I am," Jon winked at Edric, who at 6'2, was the star Beater on the Ravenclaw team.

"I like Quidditch too," I blurted out, attempting to get involved in the discussion.

The conversation ground to a halt. Marlene leveled me with a disapproving stare, but Edric and Argo were eyeing me with a new sense of respect. Or at least they were until Jon ruined it.

"No you don't," Jon said. "You're terrified of getting on broomsticks."

"Erm, well, I could like Quidditch. As in I have the potential to like it. I just don't know if I do…yet" I rambled.

"Possibly because you've never bothered attending a match?" Jon scoffed. I frowned, having realized what he was doing. He didn't want me here meeting his friends and attempting to get involved in his social life.

"…Possibly," I mumbled, my face burning.

"Ah, that can be easily remedied. First match of the season is a few weeks from now. I'll get us tickets," Edric beamed at me, diffusing the tension quickly.

"Right. Right, sounds good," I said, my stomach lurching. I could take a hint. The fact that Jon didn't want me here coupled with this incredibly awkward conversation meant it was time to depart.

"I've got to use the loo!" I exclaimed brightly, and fled the compartment, but not before I heard Jon grumble, "There she goes," and Argo wonder out loud – with genuine concern in his voice – what exactly about the loo I was so excited about.

I wandered the train, keeping my head ducked as I rushed past the Slytherin compartments, and found an empty one by the back. I entered and lay down across one of the seats, sighing. Maybe this was what I really needed – some time alone. It felt as if my mind was too cluttered, and I desperately wanted to clear it out and lighten my thoughts.

It occurred to me that this would be a good time to write a letter to Padfoot, but my quills and parchment were in my trunk, which I'd abandoned in Jon's compartment. Bloody hell, it would be awkward when I arrived back there at the end of the train ride to retrieve my belongings. Hopefully they'd figured out by now that I wasn't actually in the loo? It couldn't possibly be good for my (mostly nonexistent) social status if a popular clique of 7th years were convinced I'd ditched them to spend several hours in the bathroom by myself.

The compartment door opened unexpectedly, and I nearly fell out of the seat. A wiry, thin boy with sheer blonde hair strolled in and sat across from me, his head buried in a thick novel. I straightened myself and cleared my throat loudly. The boy pushed his wire-frame glasses further up his nose and turned a page.

Well then.

"Er, hello," I said half-heartedly.

He turned another page, not pausing to spare me a glance.

"…What're you reading?" I asked.

That seemed to get his attention. He tossed the book aside, narrowly avoiding the half-open window, and launched into an impassioned speech. "Biased nonsense on the classification of the subjective nature of reality – which, as everyone knows, is severely lacking in its scope – for example, Snorkacks, an endangered species – you must've heard of them?" he paused to ask.

I blinked. His voice was high and had a nasal quality about it. It was incredibly migraine-inducing.

"I s'pose you haven't," he barged on. "Can't expect everyone to be educated these days – but anyhow, if one takes into consideration that a Snorkack wouldn't be recognized under the modern classification sys – "

The compartment door banged open once more.

"Xen! Hi! Hello! Just the man I was looking for!" a petite red-head exclaimed as she entered. She sounded a bit frantic, and it was a bit odd the way she waved her wand, locking the compartment doors shut behind her. _Lily Evans. _She was near the top of my year, grades wise, but was most recognizable due to her her obsessive stalker.

The skinny blonde boy that was presumably named Xen frowned at her.

"Hullo, Lillian," he said gravely, retrieving his discarded book and resuming his reading.

Fucking hell. Was this what it was like to actually interact with people? It was fucking irritating. I almost preferred the usual angsty loneliness that inevitably accompanied sitting in a compartment full of Slytherins whose idea of maintaining a conversation consisted of a series of expressive grunts.

The girl didn't seem fazed by Xen's disapproval. "For the dozenth time, Xen, it's Lily." She turned to me. "Hi," she said brightly, extending a hand. "I'm Lily Evans." She kept glancing at the door, as if expecting someone to try and force their way in.

"Andrea Krupp," I said, taking her hand. She embodied the easy feminine grace that I could never hope to achieve. She had a fierce glint in her eyes, though.

An uneasy silence descended over us. Christ, my life was a series of awkward moments. I heroically rose to the occasion and spoke up.

"So, um, why do you keep looking at the door as if you expect it to hex you?" I asked Lily.

She chuckled.

"I, er, may have upset a certain someone."

I arched an eyebrow. "A certain someone?"

"I hope you don't mind me using your compartment as a, erm…"

"Hideout?" I supplied.

Lily grinned. "I was going to put it more delicately, but yes, a hideout. What house are you in, by the way? You look terribly familiar. I'm in 6th ye – "

She was cut off by the sound of feet thundering down the corridor followed by someone pounding on the door.

"EVANS!" A voice roared from outside. "FIX IT. NOW."

"Oh dear," Lily gulped, but despite looking slightly frightened, she seemed like she was trying to hold back laughter.

"EVANS! I'M FUCKING SERIOUS." Oh Merlin, I recognized that voice.

"Do you mind?" Lily asked me politely, as if discussing the weather.

"Not at all," I waved her ahead. Whoever thought I'd ever be exchanging conspiratorial grins with the Gryffindor golden girl? Lily flicked her wand at the door and it burst open.

Remus Lupin stumbled in, doubled over laughing, and James Potter tumbled to the floor. He pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his robes. It took me a moment before I realized something was off.

James Potter's famously tousled 'Fuck-me-I-just-got-off-my-broomstick' black hair was dyed a respectable, mousy brown, lying flat, and neatly combed with a side-part, the result being that he looked like he should have been in an advertisement for some snooty preparatory school, jumping over a fence on horseback or some shit.

I choked back a laugh and ended up snorting in a very unladylike manner. Potter whipped around to glare at me but stopped short.

"Oh, hello Andrea!" he beamed, his anger disappearing momentarily, until Lupin elbowed him in the ribs and collapsed with a renewed bout of laughter. Potter gave him a shove and turned back to Lily, remembering his original intent in coming here.

"Lily Evans," he growled angrily. "You've gone too far."

Her laughter was quickly replaced with self-righteous outrage "_I've _gone too far? Bloody hell, Potter, all I ask is that you _leave me alone_."

"Yes – but – " he stuttered, gesturing towards his head. "The _hair_, Evans," he moaned. "Stay away from the hair. Ladies love my ha – "

"You look like a complete prat, Potter," Lily deadpanned.

A look of genuine hurt crossed Potter's face. "Fine," he said, his voice startlingly calm. "Fix my hair, and I won't bother you again."

Lily eyed him skeptically.

"I swear it," Potter insisted. "Gryffindor honor. I give you my word."

Lily rolled her eyes, muttering, "Typical, melodramatic prat," but she raised her wand and cast the counter-jinx that returned his hair to its usual state of disarray, and turned to leave. "It was lovely meeting you, Andrea."

I managed a smile, despite the awkward scene that had just unfolded. "Likewise."

She opened the door, and nearly ran into Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. I was getting a bit used to this whole 'random emotionally unstable people barging into my compartment' thing, and the fact that Potter and Lupin were here meant that Black and Pettigrew couldn't be far behind, so I wasn't too surprised by this new development.

Our latest unwelcome visitors seemed to be the last straw for good old Xen, however, and without saying a word, he marched out with his book tucked securely under his arm and his nose in the air, a one man parade.

"Well, that was odd," Potter said, after Xen had gone.

"Good man, Xenophilius," Lupin observed sagely.

"The best," Pettigrew agreed solemnly, shaking his head.

Black was still standing by the doorway, amused by the scene before him.

"A Slytherin, a blood traitor and a muggleborn walk into a compartment…" he started. I avoided meeting his gaze. I hadn't seen him – or, for that matter, Lupin or Potter – since the night that I'd stupidly shown up at the Potter manor a week ago, and I didn't know if Black had explained that I was not, in his words "the average Slytherin chick" to his friends.

James frowned. "You're not serious are you, Sirius? That was awful."

Black groaned, slouching against the doorframe with his hands shoved in his robe's pockets. "Jesus, mate, that pun's worn to death."

Lily was looking at me warily, and I could feel myself growing more anxious. She'd come off as one of those perpetually nice people that was friendly to everyone – with the possible exception of James Potter – and I was suddenly very concerned that she'd dislike me on account of my being a Slytherin. I didn't know why I'd suddenly chosen this exact moment to start worrying over what people thought of me, but it was bloody inconvenient.

She didn't mince words, either. She cut to the heart of the matter. "Why aren't you with the other Slytherins? What are you doing here?"

I felt my throat go dry.

"Have you had a falling out with your boyfriend?" Black drawled.

I looked at him, wide-eyed, and too late, remembered my promise to myself. _Stop playing the victim, Drea._

"Actually, yes, I have," I told him, with a note of steel in my voice.

Black looked smug. "What? Can't he satisfy you in bed?"

"Sirius," Potter cautioned angrily. "Watch it."

"No, it's fine," I said. "Let's talk outside," I said, nodding towards the corridor. Surprisingly, Black obliged and stepped out. I followed and shut the door behind us.

"What the hell is your problem?" I asked, once we'd walked a suitable distance away from the compartment. "Like – what do you even want from me?"

Black blinked, surprised by the vehemence of my tone.

"I'll answer whatever questions you have now, and then leave me the hell alone. I don't understand what I ever did to you," I finished.

Black scowled. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. This isn't the first time my parents have tried this, and you're not going to drag my friends into it."

"I – what? What are you talking about, Black?" I was completely bewildered by his accusation.

He glowered. "Don't play dumb. My mother – or anyone in my family, really – probably paid you to check up on me."

I snorted. "You paranoid little shit."

Black stepped back, surprised.

"I don't know if you're just being narcissistic or what, but I'm trying to take care of myself. Avoiding the 6th year Slytherins is for my own good. I couldn't care less about what you spend your time doing, Black," I laughed, then added wryly, "Though, according to the rumors, the answer to that is evidently the entire female student body…including a few teachers," I frowned. Now _that_ was a disconcerting image.

He ignored my rambling. "Then – then why are you getting involved with my friends? What do you mean this is for your own good?"

"It's none of your business," I bit out, and started to walk away. Black grabbed my wrist and held me in place, pulling me dangerously close.

"Well I think it is," he growled.

Fine. If he was so desperate to know, then fuck it, I'd tell him. I lowered my voice so that no one in the compartment could hear me. "Mulciber tried to get your brother to rape me. Just for fun. Because that's the sort of thing he does."

Black stared. That clearly hadn't been the answer he'd been expecting.

"That's what happened, and I literally don't give a shit whether you believe me or not, but I'm asking you politely to please leave me the fuck alone."

Black was still staring at me strangely, and didn't resist when I wrenched my wrist free of his grasp.

I frowned at him. "Shut up."

He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say anything."

"I know what you're thinking. And it's annoying," I said petulantly. "I don't need your pity, Black. I shoved your brother away and told Mulciber to sod off."

"I don't pity you," he laughed, having found his voice. "You brought that shit on yourself by hanging out with the wrong sort."

I was surprised that he'd taken what I said at face value – it sounded as if he believed me. I shrugged. To be honest, I agreed with him.

"I'm not saying you deserve anything remotely like that – I'm just saying…I don't know." He trailed off.

I laughed. "Don't worry about it, Black." I turned to enter the compartment already, and nearly missed his question.

"One last thing," he said softly, his voice less certain. "Did Reg…was my brother going to do it?" He sounded conflicted, as if he didn't really want to know the answer.

I remembered the way Regulus had bent down and briefly touched his lips to mine. In a way it had almost been more humiliating than if he'd been cruel about it. His gentleness had only reinforced the fact that he'd held all the cards in that situation. It would have been easier to paint him as the villain and myself as an innocent victim if he'd been cruel, but the way he'd grazed his lips against mine had blurred the lines. I had no idea how he'd intended his actions to come off, but I was still filled with a sense of disgust when I recalled them.

I shook my head. "No," I told Black. "I don't think he was."

Black nodded, his face devoid of all emotion, and followed me into the compartment. We'd interrupted a particularly intense game of Exploding Snap. Potter's eyebrows were slightly burnt, and Lily seemed to find this vastly amusing. Meanwhile, Lupin was reading a thick tome that looked suspiciously like it was related to academia, and Pettigrew was refereeing the game – and doing a very poor job of it.

"No, that was – I think – an illegal move – and as ref, I'm disqualifying – no – wait – ARGH!"

There was a painfully loud _SNAP!_ Followed by Lily laughing as Potter succeeding in singing his eyebrows clean off.

"Ha! I win!" she crooned.

Potter opened his mouth to respond, but caught himself and just nodded sullenly. Lily seemed shocked by this.

"So you're actually planning on keeping your promise, then? No more annoying me?"

He frowned and said nothing, looking rather like a toddler who'd just been advised to eat more vegetables. Lily smirked and stood to leave.

"Andrea," she acknowledged me curtly, before heading to the door.

"It was just a misunderstanding," Black called after her, and she stopped for a moment, looking between him and me. Black cleared his throat self-consciously. "What I mean is that she's not, er, a pureblood supremacist? At least, I don't think so?"

Pettigrew gaped. "Alas, how the mighty have fallen! Is that Sirius Black, I see? Unsure of himself?"

Black slapped the back of his head. Twice, for good measure.

"Ow! Ow! Jesus. Completely unnecessary, that was," Pettigrew whined.

Lily ignored the two of them and gave me a hesitant smile before leaving.

The rest of the train ride passed uneventfully, with the four boys in my compartment dropping off to sleep as the hours passed. I dozed off in the corner, and strangely enough, the atmosphere in the compartment was pleasant.

As the train pulled into the station, there was another knock at the door. I resisted the urge to groan. It opened, and Jon came into view, levitating my trunk. It landed on the floor of the compartment with a loud thump that disturbed the boys from their sleep. Jon grunted noncommittally and jerked his head out to the hallway, which I took to be man-speak for 'come outside, we need to talk.'

I went out and closed the door behind us. "What's up?"

He frowned, his arms crossed over his chest. "Why'd you run off?"

"I…I'm sick of arguing with everyone I talk to," I bit my lip. "I'm trying really hard. Just please give me some time, okay?" I knew I sounded idiotic and clichéd, but it was the most honest thing I'd said in a while.

He looked at me for a long moment. "Yeah," he sighed. "Let's not argue." He turned away, running a hand through his hair. "Just – just leave me out of your bullshit," he said and walked away.

I sighed and watched him go, then re-entered the compartment.

Apparently Potter, Pettigrew, Black and Lupin had woken up. There was a beat of silence as the lot of them stared at me, and then Potter coughed something that sounded suspiciously like _'Drama Queen.'_

I scowled, and he raised his hands in defense.

"Not you – _him_," he explained, gesturing towards the door. He looked at me worriedly, trying to gauge my reaction.

I surprised us both by laughing.

* * *

School wasn't half bad. A few weeks into term, I couldn't remember why I'd been so depressed about returning to Hogwarts in the first place. I spent most of my time in the library studying. This served the dual purpose of putting some distance between me and the rest of the 6th year Slytherins, and allowing me to focus on academics. Classes were harder than ever before, but the material was substantially more interesting, and I found that I didn't mind it as much as I thought I would.

I was more of a loner than ever before, but for once I didn't mind. I found myself enjoying the solitude that I experienced. I avoided the Slytherin common room, and went up to the dorms late every night. I'd hardly ever spoken to my dorm mates in the past, so that wasn't anything new. The curious thing was that whenever I went up late, I'd invariably find Mulciber in the common room sitting by himself, pouring over obscure texts. I didn't know what was going on with him, but he'd grown pale and withdrawn from the rest of his friends. I knew I would have to deal with Mulciber eventually, but for now he hadn't attempted to instigate anything.

I still had classes with him and passed him in the corridors once in a while, and more often than not he'd nod at me when he saw me, but he seemed to think my self-imposed isolation was punishment enough for what I'd done. Luckily enough, word hadn't gotten back to him that I'd ever visited the Potter manor, or sat with Potter and his friends on the Hogwarts Express.

Black and Pettigrew ignored me entirely, and Lupin would only acknowledge my existence when we were both in the library, struggling to understand particularly complex Arithmancy or Astronomy concepts. He made a decent study partner, and I'd reached the conclusion that his IQ was higher than the sum of Pettigrew's, Black's and Potter's combined.

Lily Evans and I had gotten into the habit of smiling at each other when we came across one another in the hallways. Argo Fallon had – surprisingly – invited me to Hogsmeade with him, and I'd been too shocked to reject his offer. He'd taken my stunned silence as a yes, then clapped me on the back and wandered off, promptly crashing into a statue of Beugarde the Befuddled. I was still waiting for him to take me out.

I hadn't had time to write a proper letter to Padfoot in ages - mostly because I was too lazy to head up to the Owlery to post it.

All in all, my social life had hit an all time low – Potter, however, was another story.

He'd somehow managed to become my partner in Potions, and I'd _swear_ that boy was trying to ruin my life.

* * *

"She doesn't love me anymore," he moaned, carelessly tossing chopped gurdyroot into the steaming cauldron. It gurgled threateningly and turned an alarming shade of pink.

"Potter," I cursed. "Watch what goes into the caul – no! What are you doing?"

Professor Slughorn walked by, tutting as Potter stirred the potion counter-clockwise instead of clockwise. I knocked Potter's arm out of the way and snatched the ladle out of his hand.

"Listen up, man. I am _not_ failing this class because you're a sissy."

Potter glared. "I am _NOT_ a sissy," he practically yelled.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, and I'm sure the whole class is pleased that you've reaffirmed your manliness to the world, but can we _please_ get on with this drought?"

The best part about James Potter was that he was so good natured and endearingly confused that anyone could be a talented conversationalist around him – even me. He was just so damn easy to talk to. He took nearly everything in stride, and rarely made me feel self-conscious.

Potter ran a hand through his hair dramatically, which – I kid you not – elicited a chorus of dreamy sighs from his resident fangirls in the back of the room. I shot them an irritated look. They were only encouraging his theatrics, which was clearly having a negative impact on my mark in Potions. I couldn't comprehend how any of them had managed to pull the As on their OWLs necessary to even take this class.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Here's the deal: you handle the potion making, and I'll talk."

"…What?" I gaped. "How does that even make sense?"

"The talking helps!" he insisted. "It'll be, um, therapeutic!"

"Do you even know what that word means?"

"Yeah, duh. It means making potions is traumatizingly awful, and if you listen to my soothing voice as you do it, then we all win!"

The troubling part was that most of the time, I couldn't tell if Potter was joking or not.

"Whatever," I grudgingly conceded. Anything that prevented him from getting involved in the potion making process was good by me. Maybe my grade in this class was salvageable after all.

I stirred clockwise frantically, and the potion's fuchsia color faded into a deep orange, which was at least a bit closer to the 'pale tangerine' that the potion vaguely called for. As I added the necessary ingredients, Potter continued prattling on about his love life.

"…and I thought she'd regret it by now, and come crawling back – I mean – I haven't asked her out for a full month – a month! But she seems so happy without me. It's downright rude to be that happy – "

"Potter," I sighed. He quieted. "Have you ever tried a more normal approach?"

His mouth formed a small, wordless 'o'.

"I'll take that as a no. Look, just ask her out to Hogsmeade. Politely. And if she says no, leave it at that." Potter was nodding excitedly. It appeared that he hadn't considered this before. "And if she says yes – Potter, pay attention," I barked. "This is the important part – on the off chance that she says yes, you are to refrain from attempting to kiss her, grope her, or proclaim your undying love for her."

"But –"

"No buts. Shut up. Stick to the plan, okay?"

His voice dropped about two octaves, and he stroked his chin. "Aye, Captain."

I refused to dignify his oddness with a response and turned back to attempting to save our smoking potion.

But secretly, I prayed that Lily Evans said yes.

My grades depended on it.

* * *

_**A/N:** Please_ _take a second to write a review! I live for them! :D _

_Just got back from my chem midterm, which I didn't study for because I was writing this! Woohoo! This chapter had lots of fluff, but I was a bit tired of writing depressing stuff hehe c: Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! I posted this last night and deleted it after realizing I'd left some key parts out, which is why the updates are all wonky. I'll hopefully have another chapter up soon because I've been in the mood to write lately._


	5. Encounters with Toerags

**Five.**  
**Encounters With Toerags**

It was a Sunday night, and I had a Transfiguration exam in the morning, but I wasn't studying. Instead, I was huddled on the floor of the Owlery, attempting to placate my irate pen pal.

Only a few hours ago I'd been in the library struggling to memorize three weeks worth of notes with the aid of Remus Lupin. He and I had begun studying together frequently. We hardly spoke about anything that wasn't directly related to academics, but I had gathered through the rare snippets of our conversation that neither Potter, Black, nor Pettigrew could be relied upon to do schoolwork regularly.

I'd come to the realization that Lupin was a rather odd, sickly boy, albeit with a forceful, 'I take shit from no one' personality. We were seated at a table in one of the far corners of the library, and Madame Pince had let the two of us stay after hours presumably because she knew Lupin and I weren't likely to be breaking any rules. Lupin's knowledge of the test material was profound, especially when it came to the more complex subjects such as human transfiguration, but mine was much more limited.

I'd been studying an old text, _Animagi: The Pinnacle of Transfiguration_, by Herbert Humdiddle, when Lupin had spoken up.

"Er, perhaps you should do something about that?"

I'd glanced up. "Huh?"

Lupin had gestured towards the nearby window. I'd looked up and nearly jumped up with surprise. An owl was pecking furiously at the glass pane, clutching a thin parcel. There was no mistaking that its message had been intended for me, because it'd been glaring straight at me, squawking angrily.

I'd rushed to the window and let the poor bird in (along with a torrent of rain and a gust of freezing air that left the two of us shivering), extracted the letter from the owl's talons, and read it.

_DEAR ANON,_

_THIS IS THE THIRD LETTER I'VE SENT THAT YOU HAVEN'T RESPONDED TO. DID YOU DIE? HAS SOMETHING AWFUL BEFALLEN YOU? DO YOU REQUIRE RESCUING?_

_As always, love,_

_Padfoot_

_P.S. If you don't respond to this letter, the next time I send Lilliput off with one for you I'm going to follow her on my broomstick and find you and smack you upside the head. I swear. I'm serious. _

I'd been unable to contain my laughter. Lupin had shot me a skeptical look as if questioning my sanity, and begun packing up. We called it a night and he headed off for the Gryffindor dormitory and I went up to the Owlery to send Padfoot a response.

And so here I was, my hair in a ridiculously messy bun, wearing an oversized sweater, shivering in the Owlery, attempting to convince Padfoot that there was no need to go to extreme measures. It was pitch black outside, and save for a smattering of stars I couldn't see anything. The floor I was sitting on was covered with owl droppings and pellets, but I was too tired to mind.

I whispered Lumos" into the dark, laid out a piece of parchment before me and began to write.

_Padfoot,_

_Relax, I'm still alive. I've been incredibly busy what with school and everything. Not too sure what I mean by 'everything' actually, because I haven't been doing much other than schoolwork. It's starting to feel like our correspondence is the sanest, most stable relationship I have going on right now. That is, if you ignore the fact that I've been ignoring you._

_Which, incidentally, I have not. I've just been too lazy to head all the way up to the Owlery to write you a letter. But here I am, so I suppose that's been remedied._

_Yours,_

_Anon_

I sent an owl off with my response, and set about trying to find the motivation to get back and and return to my dormitory. I stifled a yawn, I was on the verge of falling asleep right there on the Owlery floor, and some unsuspecting, homesick first year who'd come up to post a letter to their Mum would probably step on me in the morning.

I narrowly avoided this tragic fate, because within fifteen minutes, the owl I'd sent off had returned with a response. _Well, that'd been quick._ Usually there was a gap of days between our letters.

I opened the letter.

_This is your most stable relationship? That's slightly pathetic, but since we're in the same boat, let's hope it doesn't sink._

Hmph. What was with everyone calling me pathetic, lately? I scrawled a response beneath his own:

_You dolt. I'm not pathetic._

_Goodnight,_

_Anon_

"Nox," I whispered, and lit a cigarette (they were quite easy to smuggle into Hogwarts, really). I stared out the window into the night. It was freezing out, and goosebumps covered my skin, but it was also eerily breathtaking to be this high up. The only light I could see in the dark room was from the end of my cigarette, and the atmosphere in the room made me feel strangely detached from the rest of the world. It was blissfully relaxing.

Once again, the owl returned within a short span of time. I wondered where Padfoot was at the moment – lying in his dorm somewhere, writing letters to some mysterious girl? This basically ruled out the possibility that he was a Hufflepuff of a Slytherin, seeing as those dormitories didn't have windows and were underground.

"Lumos," I whispered again, and opened the letter.

_Touchy spot, eh? Well, I think you're really wonderful. Not pathetic in the slightest. It's not as if your sole confident is an anonymous pen pal._

_Sweet dreams,_

_Padfoot_

I found myself smiling_. 'Well, I think you're really wonderful.'_ Yes, okay. I could deal with that. It was certainly a vast improvement over being referred to as pathetic, even if it was said ironically. Even then, I knew there was a faint trace of truth to those words. In Padfoot's mind, I was someone worth writing to – someone worth two years of correspondence – and that certainly meant something.

I gathered my spare parchment and quills and stuffed them in my rucksack to make my way down to my dormitory. I was practically dead on my feet. It well past midnight by the time I found myself back in the Slytherin common room. To my surprise, there was a lone figure sitting by the hearth. They looked up as I entered. I bit back a curse.

"Drea?" Mulciber called out. He was reading over sheets of parchment, and his wand lay on the table in front of him. His voice almost sounded hopeful. I wouldn't fall for that, though. I ignored him, and continued walking towards my dorm, but I was still painfully aware of his gaze fixated on me.

Abruptly, his demeanor changed. "I'm talking to you, Drea. Answer me," he spat. I flinched, and stopped to acknowledge him. "Why do you have to be such a _bitch?_" he snarled, his chest heaving with suppressed anger.

It occurred to me then that as bizarre as it was, this was his version of an apology. His guilt had expressed itself as anger because he had no other outlet for it. This was the closest he'd ever be able to bring himself to acknowledging that what he'd done was _wrong_. But instead of taking the blame for it – which was a possibility he'd likely never consider – he'd chosen to paint me as a _bitch. _It was his defense mechanism against his guilt. Mulciber would rationalize that it had been okay for him to try and pawn me off – to put me on show for his friends – by convincing himself that I'd deserved it.

He approached me, the scowl never leaving his face, coming so close that my back was pressed against the cold, stone wall – but he couldn't scare me. I'd seen beneath his mask.

"Say something," he growled. I struggled to meet his gaze without faltering. He was just a boy. Just a pathetic, lonely boy, putting on an act that his audience wasn't here to appreciate, and I wouldn't give him the pleasure of being threatened by his façade. Avery and Severus might have been suitably impressed by Mulciber's tough attitude, but here, without them to egg him on, it was beginning to slip.

He wouldn't curse me or hex me if the usual crowd wasn't here to appreciate his cruelty. I knew that much. But still, the fierce look in his eyes was beginning to scare me. He raised a hand to the side of my face and stroked my cheek, and I failed to suppress a shudder. Mulciber pulled back slightly, a twisted grin on his face, satisfied that I was frightened by him.

He rested his hand on the wall above my head, and his grin faded to a soft smile. His eyes shut, he leaned in. Shit. Oh god. Shit. _Shit._ He was going to make me _his._ I didn't want this – but what if it was all I had? My thoughts were incoherent, and suddenly I found myself paralyzed by the fear that this was all I would amount to – that my life would continually return to this point, where I found myself at Mulciber's mercy, where, having lost faith in myself, I wouldn't have anything to fall back on, and –

_Well, I think you're really wonderful._

Bloody hell. Not a moment too soon, I darted away from his embrace, pushing him away from me. His eyes snapped open in disbelief.

"Mul, no," I said, simply, my voice quavering. And then more forcefully I repeated, "No." I backed away slowly, heading in the general direction of my dormitory. For a moment it seemed as if he wouldn't say anything, and then –

"An – Andrea?" he whispered. He was staring at me incredulously, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled. "W-where are you going?" There was a hint of fear in his voice at the prospect of my departure, and it made me feel physically ill.

I shook my head slowly. His shoulders slouched, and he ran a hand through his hair, evidently confused by this turn of events.

I struggled to reconcile the shaken, vulnerable boy I saw before me with the one that had arrogantly confronted me a mere two months earlier in Diagon Alley. His composure had betrayed him at the first sign of my defection, and for the first time in a year I saw him as he truly was: terrified. The Andrea of last year would have been heartbroken to see him like this. She would have pushed aside her own inhibitions and went to him willingly. She would have let him kiss her, touch her, take out his frustration and suffering on her.

But I felt no empathy for Mulciber. He'd taken the Mark by his own choice. I pitied him, just as I pitied the girl I had once been. But while I had been able to resurface from the mess I'd been drowning in, I feared that Mulciber was in far too deep.

"No," I told him once more, my voice gentle.

I turned away before I could gauge his reaction and nearly sprinted to my dorm. I shut the door as quietly as I could behind me to avoid waking up my dorm mates, then, with my back to the door, sank to the floor. I took deep, shuddering breaths, and for some reason, the events of the past few months kept running through my mind. The back of my throat ached, and I could feel tears beginning to prick at my eyes. I felt so tired, both mentally and physically.

Fuck shit fuck. I had a huge Transfiguration exam tomorrow morning, so I really didn't have time for a melodramatic crying session at the moment. What I needed was a good night's sleep. I forced myself to my feet and dragged my body to my four-poster. The bed buckled under my weight as I collapsed into its warm embrace, and several aching breaths later, sleep overcame me.

* * *

I headed down to breakfast early next morning, but without much of an appetite. The Slytherin table was nearly deserted when I sat down. I sipped my pumpkin juice and stabbed at my platter full of pancakes, willing my appetite to return.

"Having a bad morning?"

I looked up. My fork clattered to the table. Regulus Black smiled affably, slid into the seat next to me, and began piling his plate high with pancakes and bacon. He was in 5th year, but his height would've allowed him to pass for a 7th year. Unlike his brother, he still looked boyish, and had glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose that I'd never seen him wear before. His curly black hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and more than a few girls were glancing at him, giggling rather shrilly. He didn't take notice of them, nor did he seem to be expecting a response from me, because he'd dug into his pancakes with a vigor that bordered on disgusting.

I wondered if he was acting like this on purpose to appease me...but that was probably just my over-analyzation of the situation. Nevertheless, his sloppy appearance and casual attitude were completely at odds with the manner in which he'd acted previously. I couldn't bring myself to view the carefree (and apparently starved) boy before me with the same measure of distaste that I had before. He just seemed too harmless and normal.

"Where's Mul?" Snape asked as he sat down across from Regulus.

First Regulus and now Snape? Had I suddenly become popular?

"God only knows where the poor bloke is," Regulus commented airily. "He's bitten off a bit more than he can chew, eh?"

Both Snape and I glanced at him sharply. It was almost a bit comical. Had he really just dared to say what everyone had been thinking for the past few months? He'd given voice to the pity that I felt for Mulciber, which was something I'd been too afraid to do.

I averted my eyes, wanting to avoid the subject, and noticed Potter entering the Great Hall. He caught my eye and gave me a wink. Students were filling into the hall now, as it was nearly eight.

Potter approached Lily, an easy smile on his face, and bent down to say something to her. I couldn't hear his words from the Slytherin table, but Lily didn't seem to be taking it well. She shook her head vehemently in response. Potter simply nodded, thrust his hands into his robe pockets, and walked off. Lily's jaw dropped open.

"Is that it?" she asked, almost too loudly. "What're you playing at Potter?" She was beginning to attract attention from other students in the hall. Regulus was still occupied with his breakfast, but Snape kept glancing over at Lily.

Potter seemed confused by her response. The hall was beginning to quiet, as Potter and Lily Evans were some of the more popular people in 6th year, and their exploits were avidly followed by a plurality of Hogwarts students. I could just barely make out Potter's response this time around.

"Nothing," he said, keeping his voice even despite the fact that his casual smile slipped slightly. "I'm not playing at anything." Regulus seemed to have taken note of the scene unfolding before the hall as well, now, but didn't seem to find it particularly interesting. He continued shoving food in his mouth at an unbelievable rate. _How the hell did that boy stay so fit if he ate like a starving hippogriff?_

"Oh? I should've known you never really cared. Have you gotten over your childish infatuation, then?" Lily seemed truly irate. Something else must've been fueling her anger. I couldn't imagine Potter saying anything offensive enough to merit this sort of response. Sure, she'd said things to Potter that were much crueler than what she was saying now, but the tone of her voice was decidedly more serious.

James's eyebrows shot up. "Evans," he started, his voice pained, "I'd _die_ for you."

I resisted the urge to groan. He'd gone and made a bad situation even worse by making his usual, over the top pronouncements. Undeniably, though, there was a note of sincerity in his voice. It was almost embarrassing to bear witness to the true depth of his emotion.

"Is that so?" Lily said shrilly, her voice echoing across the Great Hall. Sarcasm dripped from her every word. "If you're so eager to die, Potter, why don't you go and jump in the Great Lake?"

Snape choked back a laugh, and shoved his toast into his mouth lest his glee at this turn of events be revealed, but it was clear that he was glad to see Lily spurn Potter once more. The rest of the Hall had gone quiet, and Lily was blushing furiously.

Potter wasn't taking Lily's pronouncement well at all. His face had gone completely blank, and his jaw was working up and down but no words came out.

I felt a slight twinge of guilt – after all, I'd encouraged him to ask Lily out one last time.

"Um," he finally choked out, after a painful few seconds of silence, then he turned and walked out of the hall.

A stunned silence descended over the hall, then abruptly, loud conversation broke out. Potter had never given up that easily before, and clearly this scene would incite rampant gossiping throughout the school.

"Wankers," Regulus commented thoughtfully through a mouth stuffed with bacon. "The lot of them," he added, gesturing towards the general population of the hall with his fork. Then he stood up, dusted the crumbs off of his robes and walked out the doors Potter had just departed from.

Strangely enough, I was inclined to agree with him.

* * *

My exam wasn't half bad. Instead of studying the breadth of the material the exam covered and being forced to analyze each question in a narrow context, I'd focused on the fundamentals of each topic. That way I was able to derive the methods necessary to answer each question. It took me a bit longer to finish the exam than it did most of the other students, but I was confident that my answers had been more accurate. Before leaving the exam hall, Lupin flashed me a thumbs up, which I returned. Studying with him was doing wonders for my grades.

I walked through the corridor feeling rather pleased with myself.

"Hey!" a voice called. It was nearly swallowed up by the chattering of the throng of students filling the halls. I glanced over my shoulder, but didn't see anyone that might've been calling me.

"Hey! Andrea!" I swiveled around, then blinked in surprise. Sirius Black was pushing through the packed corridor, attempting to reach me. "Fuck – sorry, excuse me, darling," he apologized to the people he cut in front of as he made his way over.

"Er, hi," I said.

He ignored my greeting. "I need help with James," he panted, drawing up short beside me.

"Is he threatening to throw himself off the astronomy tower?" I joked weakly. The tension – no – the awkwardness, was palpable. I briefly considered just airing out our dirty laundry to see if that would make this situation less painful for the both of us. But what could I even say? _Hey, I know you've accused me twice of being in cohorts with the darkest wizard of all time, and your little brother is a kiss up to said wizard, but maybe we should put that behind us and start over?_

Nah, that probably wasn't one of my brighter ideas.

"I wish," Black frowned. "That's exactly the problem – he's not being his usual theatrical self. He's just not speaking."

My eyebrows shot up. "James Potter? Not speaking?" It occurred to me that this was the first time Black and I were talking to one another since we'd been on the Hogwarts Express, and that this was the first time we were having a conversation in public.

"For extended periods of time. It's unheard of," Black sighed.

I fidgeted. _Yes, that was abnormal for Potter, but why confront me about it?_ After a beat of silence, Black coughed.

"What?" I asked.

"What do you mean, what? You're his relationship coach. It was your idea for him to ask that psycho bitch Evans to Hogsmeade in the first place. You have to fix this."

I gawked. He gave me an odd look, and I closed my mouth quickly. _Ugh, why did I have to be so weird all the time._

"Fix this?" I spluttered. "I'm not his relationship coach – what the hell – did he tell you that?" I cursed. "Bloody Potter," I muttered under my breath. "How do you expect me to fix – "

Black rolled his eyes and grabbed my hand. "C'mon," he said, "I'm taking you to see him. He's holed up in some classroom or the other." He was practically dragging me through the hallways, and I had to walk quickly to match his long stride.

We walked in silence for a bit, threading our way through the crowded corridors. I'd never skived a class before, but I didn't particularly mind missing Arithmancy. I had a headache that was likely due to both sleep deprivation and the mental exhaustion the exam had caused me, so I probably wouldn't have managed to pay attention in class anyhow.

Black and I were drawing the attention of the other students, and I could feel my face flush. I wasn't petty enough to deny that he was more than just good looking. He was attractive. It had more to do with his confident, nonchalant attitude than to do with his conventional good looks, though I supposed the latter definitely helped. Walking beside him, I felt self-conscious and increasingly insecure. Had our situations been reversed, I would never have had the gall to simply take him by the hand and rush off to our destination, and I envied the fact that he did.

The crowds around us thinned as most of the students headed off to their next classes, and Black and I steadily approached the abandoned parts of the school.

"Is he wallowing in some abandoned classroom, then?" I asked.

Black nodded without pausing to look at me, but he released my hand and slowed his pace considerably. I hadn't ever been to this area of Hogwarts before, and I was a bit surprised by the ease with which Black navigated it. We passed arrays of suits of armor, and ghosts drifted past that I didn't recognize, but he didn't seem fazed.

He stopped suddenly, before a blank wall.

"We're nearly there," he said.

"…So? Let's get on with it," I responded, but he wasn't looking at me and didn't seem to be paying attention. He massaged the back of his neck with his hand.

"You sat with my brother today." His face was impassive.

I shrugged. It hadn't been a question, and I wasn't entirely sure how I was supposed to answer.

"He didn't try anything, did he?" His voice hitched on the word 'try', and a hint of anger had crept into his voice. He turned to face me, and I'd swear I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes.

I laughed. _This was what he wanted to talk about? _"Don't try and play the hero, Black." He didn't say anything, so I added, "I can take care of myself."

He scoffed. "Trust me, _Krupp, _I don't worry about you."

We'd only resumed walking for a few seconds when he turned to the side, avoiding my gaze, and said:

"It's Reg I'm curious about." He paused, as if reaffirming this to himself. "You couldn't understand – you don't know what he used to be like."

Admittedly, my attention was divided between admiring his god given profile and his words, but the last bit caught my interest. I had a hard time trying to decipher who Regulus was at the present time, which made me wonder as to what he'd been like before. He'd likely been very different, if the wistful tone of Black's voice was anything to go off of.

I didn't want to pry and risk pissing him off further though, so I simply nodded. A few minutes later, we arrived at a classroom door. Black grunted as he pushed it open with his shoulder. It creaked open, dust and cobwebs falling to the ground, and I peered inside.

The room was empty save for a few desks and chairs pushed to the front, and a cracked blackboard hung in the front. Potter was sitting with his back to the wall, his face buried in his hands. Lupin had gotten here before us, and was sitting cross-legged beside him, coaxing him to eat a block of chocolate. Pettigrew was sitting on one of the desks in the corner and appeared to have stolen some of Lupin's chocolate.

"Fucking hell," I muttered. "This might take a while."

Lupin looked up as the two of us entered, and his shoulders sagged with relief.

"Sirius, thank god you're here," he gushed. I raised my eyebrows and side-eyed Black. _Was there something going on between those two? _I pushed the thought from my mind, knowing I'd probably dwell on it later when I was in need of some amusement, and walked over to Potter. I was going to go for a tough love approach.

"Potter," I barked, and toed his hunched over form with my shoe.

No response.

"I've tried nearly everything," Lupin sighed. Black was surveying the scene with a look of distaste on his face. _Was he just planning on standing there and being useless?_

_'Do something,'_ I mouthed to Black. He kicked Potter. Bloody hell. That's not exactly what I had in mind, but it seemed to work. Potter raised his head.

"What?" he asked blearily.

I sat down next to Potter and awkwardly patted him on the head. An idea had occurred to me, but it was going to take quite a bit of effort and kissing up to Jon, who I'd only spoken to once or twice after returning to Hogwarts.

"Cheer up, Potter," I sighed.

"No," he pouted, and covered his face with his hands again.

Black kicked him again. He seemed to be enjoying this.

"James," I said tentatively, and for the first time not using his surname, "what if I said I could get you into the 7th years Halloween bash? Would that cheer you up?"

The 7th year annual Halloween bash was a bit of a nihilistic affair. Everyone got drunk, cheated on everyone, and come morning, a fair amount of girlfriends and boyfriends had been swapped, and there'd be a well publicized pregnancy scare or two. It was exactly the sort of party that I could envision Potter and his friends attending - if it weren't for the strict, 7th years only rule. Exceptions were made only for girlfriends or boyfriends of 7th years. The bashes were generally held in the Room of Requirement, and the room was styled as an American, 1920s era speakeasy. If I could get Jon to tell me the password, then I could easily get Potter in.

He cleared his throat, wide-eyed. "Er, yes. Not to be shallow or anything. But I do think attending the Halloween bash would, you know, mend my tragically broken heart."

Pettigrew wandered over to Potter, and offered a sticky, chocolate covered hand to raise Potter to his feet.

"Ew, no thanks, mate." Potter stood up on his own, and Pettigrew shrugged and returned his attention to his chocolate. _Gross._

"Not to spoil the mood, but how exactly do you plan on getting James into that party?" Lupin asked.

Black was looking at me skeptically as well.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "Leave it to me."

"You'll regret that you ever offered soon enough," Black drawled. I shrugged, knowing he was right.

Of course I would.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Thoughts? Comments? Flames? Critique? Kittens? Please make use of the tiny blue "Review" button below!_

_Thanks for reading! Btw, I'm super sorry about my inability to use commas properly looool._


	6. Collision

******Six.**  
Collision**  
**

I wanted to feel sexy. I didn't precisely care whether or not I looked hot, _and_ in any case, I probably couldn't look hot even if I wanted to, what with my A-cups and thin figure. I'd filled out a bit in the past few months, though. Distancing myself from most of the people that I used to converse with had—ironically enough—led to my appetite finally returning. I still only ate in small portions though, and at odd times throughout the day, so it was hard to eat three square meals in the Great Hall.

But even then, I wanted to feel sexy for my own sake. It had been ages since I'd been this content, and a celebration was definitely in order. I dressed and did my makeup, and went to go check my appearance in the mirror.

My eyes were my favorite features; they were deep brown and I had long lashes. When I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, though, they looked disconcertingly familiar. I wished there had been some sort of dramatic change—but I was the same Andrea. Only with red lips and sloppily done eyeliner. I _felt_ different, but looked the same as always.

It was strange to feel disappointed. I wasn't entirely sure who I was trying to impress, anyway. There would be two people at that party whose opinions I genuinely cared for. First and foremost was my own. I wanted to _like_ myself. I'd spent far too long trying to get other people to like me—people who I didn't even care about or respect—people like Mulciber, Avery and Snape. And that had led to a downward spiral the result of which was that I'd begun to despise myself.

The other person, of course, was Jon. We'd spoken for the first time in months when I'd gone to him to ask for the password to the party.

He'd flat out denied my request, and walked away. He was an asshole, but he was my family. I'd tried multiple times, and even explained that I was doing this to help a _friend _who wasn't a _Slytherin. _He'd seemed slightly interested when I'd said that, but had still refused, and tacked an extra "fuck off" to the end of his refusal.

So I'd given up on that track. Argo Fallon, however, had been another matter.

He'd seemed to pleasantly surprised when I'd approached him after dinner this past Thursday asked if he'd let me attend the Halloween Bash with him instead of going to Hogsmeade. The poor boy had smiled broadly and agreed, while his dorm mates at the Hufflepuff table made obscene (sexual gestures) behind his back.

I didn't really plan on sleeping with him, though, even if he _was _ridiculously good looking.

I'd invented a shoddy excuse about arriving late because of a detention (as if I'd ever get detention), and he'd told me the password to the room: _cuddlebug. _At first I'd thought he was joking, but after making him repeat himself about half a dozen times, I'd decided to take his information at face value. Cuddlebug it was.

* * *

The party was everything that a party was supposed to be. Loud, confusing, and drunk.

Getting Potter in had been incredibly easy. I'd waited about half an hour (which was as long as it took for everyone to imbibe a copious amount of firewhiskey), and then knocked on the side of the wall, hoping Potter hadn't lost hope and ran off.

A minute later, a door appeared in the wall, and Potter stepped through…followed by Black and Pettigrew. We'd agreed that he shouldn't show up until everyone was properly shitfaced to ensure that he wasn't thrown out as soon as he'd arrived—but I hadn't agreed to letting Black and Pettigrew in as well.

In any case, though, I didn't really _care ._I was enjoying myself for the first time in a while.

When I'd come down, Argo had beamed and drawn me into a bear-like hug, then stepped back, told me I looked _beautiful_, and given me a sloppy kiss. Generally, if someone had done something like that I'd have apparated to the Wizengamot at first notice and filed for a restraining order—but Argo was so damn _cute _when he was drunk, that all I'd done was laugh_._

The sound of my laughter had startled Jon, who looked as if he'd seen a ghost. This lasted about half a second before he resumed full-body snogging Marlene McKinnon on one of the couches that were located around the room. I say full-body because they were wrapped around each other to the point where I legitimately couldn't tell whose hands were where, and I didn't want to know either.

I wondered briefly if he'd broken up with his muggle girlfriend before we'd left.

Argo wandered off after about a quarter hour. Apparently he had other girls that he needed to kiss, and I didn't mind sharing. I avoided drinking mostly on principle, and also because I didn't really want to suffer through a hangover in the morning. The entire school's blackmarket supply of Sobriety Solution would be depleted due to this party soon enough, and I didn't know if I'd be able to get my hands on any, so I didn't want to risk it.

I'd wandered around for a while, then let Potter and company in.

Then I danced.

It was bizarre. It started when Potter had grabbed my hand in thanks, and rushed me off to the dance floor as soon as he'd entered. The music in the room was too loud to hear myself think, and the atmosphere so carefree and happy that I'd permitted his behavior. I'd even permitted myself to enjoy it.

I'm not exactly a good dancer, but I was definitely not the worst one in the Room of Requirement at the moment, and it didn't seem likely that anyone would remember tonight's events anyway.

So I danced, and I laughed, and I had fun.

After about an hour, I really needed a breather. The room was stuffy and far too warm, and my ears were ringing from the blasting music. There was a door in the corner that really shouldn't have been there—not if you took spatial reasoning into account—but I wrote off its existence as magic and stepped out. It led to a balcony. I walked to the edge and rested my arms on the railing, letting the cool night air wash over me. After a moment, I sat down and looped my arms through the railing's bars.

It didn't look beautiful outside, but it felt it. My mind's eye romanticized the scene before me. In reality, the lights from Hogsmeade off in the distance as well as the lit dorms throughout the castle made it hard to see many of the stars, but it was still a exhilarating experience to be outside so late at night, with nothing but the oceanic sky above and the turrets of the castle giving way to the steep cliff face below.

The door behind me opened, and for a brief moment, the sounds of laughter and conversation carried through it, but it shut just as quickly.

Someone behind me cleared their throat. I was becoming all too familiar with that sound. I turned around. Sirius Black was standing with his back against the wall, and nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey dangling from his hand. His grey eyes glimmered in the moonlight, and his black hair was in disarray. And he was shirtless.

All in all, he was quite easy on the eyes.

"You," he said, sounding surprised to find me here. "Huh. Fancy seeing you here…" he trailed off.

I turned back around, willing him to disappear so I could return to enjoying my solitude. We'd spoken on a few awkward occasions in the past week, and I was getting tired of it. Our conversations were always short, and always revolved around his best mate (we had nothing else in common).

"So," he said, by way of greeting.

I rolled my eyes. "So," I repeated eloquently. He seemed to take this as my way of acknowledging him, so he took a step and sat down beside me. _Ew._ He smelled of sweat and alcohol. He took note of my disgusted face and arched an eyebrow in what he likely believed to be a suggestive manner. I resisted the urge to snort.

We could still hear the muted music blaring through the door. I couldn't recognize the singer, but the stone walls seemed to thrum and vibrate in sync with the pulsing beat.

He cleared his throat. "What's up?"

I looked up at him. "Um, nothing."

"Clearly not nothing. You're scowling. What're you thinking about?"

I was thinking about his obnoxiously loud breathing killing the mood, and wondering why he was out here, but instead, just because I felt like being impertinent, I said: "Sex."

He blinked, but recovered quickly.

"Me too," he grinned.

"Of course you're thinking about sex—you're Sirius Black. What should be odd is me thinking about sex—I'm a closeted little Slytherin," I said, trying and failing to look wide eyed and innocent.

Black ran a hand through his hair and looked me up and down. My hair was mussed and my lipstick and eye makeup were probably smudged.

"So what happened to your shirt?"

"Ah. We parted ways. It ended badly…"

_Stupid git._ Some giggling girl had probably taken it as a token to remember the time she slept with—gasp—_the_ Sirius Black. I dug a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it with a quick spell. Black watched with undisguised interest.

He sighed. "What's your game?"

"I really don't even know what you're talking about, Black," I shrugged. I was too happy to let him go and interrogate me as he was prone to do.

He scowled fiercely and clenched his jaw. "Look, you just—" He cut himself off, and stared away.

"I'm looking," I said, amusement creeping into my voice as I gazed at him unapologetically. Black wasn't exactly well-muscled. After all, Quidditch didn't require a tremendous amount of physical exertion—but his taut stomach, and the distinct 'V' disappearing beneath his Muggle pants were making me feel self-aware in the best way possible.

He was frowning at me. "What I mean," he said slowly, "is that you make _no fucking sense. _You just say weird shit for the sake of being weird. And the other half of the time you don't even talk._"_

I bounced my feet against the bottom of the ledge and nodded. "Want a cigarette? It'll warm you up, seeing as you've parted ways with your shirt."

"You're evading my questions," he spat.

Merlin, this conversation had gotten serious fast. It was beginning to feel like a game of cat and mouse as well. Black was an entertaining drunk.

"You're evading mine. Do you want a cigarette or not?" I offered him mine, its lit end smoldering in the dark. He snatched it out of my hand and took a hit, then promptly dropped it and had a coughing fit.

"What—the—fuck," he said between coughs.

"Have you never smoked before?" I picked up the fallen cigarette and stubbed it out, waiting for him to respond. When he collected himself, he resumed glaring at me, but this time with watery eyes. When he spoke his voice was hoarse.

"I'm serious—you make no sense."

I bit my lip and shrugged again.

"I literally have no idea what this conversation is even about," Black said, his voice rising.

"Uh-huh. You started it, anyway." I stood up and dusted my skirt off. "This was a good talk, Black. We should do it more often," I said jokingly and headed for the balcony door. He stared after me incredulously.

I turned the handle on the door just as Black jumped to his feet.

"No," he growled. "We aren't done here. I want answers."

I let my hand drop back to my side and turned around. Then I burst out laughing.

"Oh—my—god. You want—_answers_," I gasped as I laughed. Black stared at me as if I'd gone insane—but I hadn't. I felt grimy and chilled to the bone from the frigid night air—but I felt refreshed and on edge and most importantly, _awake._

"You seriously need help," Black muttered as he watched me with wide eyes.

"No, no, no," I said, once I'd calmed down. "Let me just—let me just _talk_." I smoothed my hairn. Black looked at me oddly, as if he half-expected me to jump or do something equally bizarre.

I gestured towards the door, and when that didn't feel like it would suffice, I took a few precarious steps back and waved disdainfully at the castle in its entirety. Black looked slightly alarmed and stepped forward unbidden, as if to prevent me from falling, but I ignored him.

"This," I said, my voice clear and sincere and more honest than I'd been in my whole life, "is bullshit."

"…"

I waited for the proverbial cricket to chirp, but apparently my pronouncement wasn't worthy of it making an appearance.

"…"

"Is that it?" Black asked, his voice rough.

"Isn't it enough? It's bullshit. All of it."

"You're being even weirder than you were about a minute ago. How is this supposed to explain anything?"

"What am I even trying to explain? It's not worth explaining. It's fucking stupid," I insisted, smiling, and sat back down again.

Black groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Exactly how many drinks did you have?" His voice was muffled by his palm.

"Zero."

He laughed, sounding genuinely amused, and all trace of derision was gone from his voice. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

He crossed his arms across his chest and sat back down. "Alright, then. I still want an explanation. You're different tonight. You danced. I don't think I've ever seen you smile before—and you probably have. Smiled before, I mean. But I've never seen it, because I never looked," he seemed to be puzzling this out for himself in his semi-drunken state. "Because you were always so easily _overlooked. _Why the sudden change?"

_Had he been watching me?_ I stared at him quizzically.

"What you mean is that you want to understand me. Not in some…pseudo-philosophical way. You want to know how I fit into, like, the ways things are supposed to be."

Black sighed loudly and lay back so he was staring up at the night sky.

"No, I mean it," I said. "You have this…mentality that operates on the basis of things—of life—being a certain way—"

"Less big words, please."

I rolled my eyes. "You think things are supposed to be a certain way. You've been raised and conditioned to believe that. It's like the Shakespeare quote—have you heard of Shakespeare?—that says _'All the world's a stage / And all the men and women merely players.'" _I paused to draw a breath.

"Two questions," Black said. "One: what are you smoking? Two: is this supposed to make sense?"

"Just shut up and listen, Black," I hissed. "You think life is this one great story: good versus evil, Death Eaters versus Muggleborns, and so on and so forth. And you think there's a set of characters—and that they're clearly divided into protagonists and antagonists—"

"Stop bloody telling me what _I think. _You don't even know me," Black said. This conversation was clearly a game to him—a small, forgettable amusement.

"Fine. I'll tell you what I think…I've spent the past few years wondering how could I make life better for myself," I said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"But I was thinking within the confines of this situation—of Hogwarts. Of being stuck here, with the same group of students. The wizarding population is so bloody small and such an infinitesimal fraction of the entire world—but we're going to be stuck dealing with these people _forever_." I worked myself up as I spoke. Black watched me warily but offered no comment.

"So I was thinking along those lines—that whatever I could do to improve my own life would be contingent upon the—the bloody social hierarchy and constructs of this, here, of Hogwarts, of the same handful of people I'll be interacting with my whole life –"

I stopped mid-rant. Black looked particularly tortured. It took me a moment, but I realized that he was struggling to suppress his laughter.

"What?" I asked, exasperated.

"Nothing," he said, a smile still lurking around the corner of his lips. "Keep going, I was enjoying the lecture."

"…Fine. Anyway—what I was saying before you so rudely interrupted—"

"I didn't interrupt. You stopped."

"You were being weird," I explained. Black coughed in a poor attempt to cover up his barking laugh.

"Because what you're saying sounds so…stupid."

"It sounds stupid because it's unconventional. But it makes sense."

Black laughed again. "So the moral of this story is that you've stopped acting shy and skittish around me because my presence doesn't make you uncomfortable…because I'm not a character in your story? I'm, what, not important enough?"

I shrugged, beginning to feel more relaxed. _At least he understands that much._

"I hate it here. And I can't think of a single good reason to stay somewhere that I hate. I mean this party was a brief respite, but as to the rest…I realized _I don't fucking care._I'm graduating in a year and a half…what have I got to lose? I don't have to stay in Britain and live alongside the same witches and wizards forever—I can do whatever the hell I like."

Black didn't seem enthused by my speech, but he nodded thoughtfully when he realized I was waiting for some sort of response.

"I don't have to worry about this stupid war that's coming or about muggleborns or anything. They can take care of themselves. And if You-Know-Who or a Death Eater decides to come for me—and why the hell should they, anyway? I'm not of any use to them—but if they do, then I'll take care of them on my own."

"Or they'll take care of you," Black said gravely. "If you have a fucking death wish, why don't you just go ahead and jump. There's a conveniently located two hundred foot drop that's only three feet to your left," he said sarcastically.

"Fine. Whatever. I'll die. Merlin knows _you _won't mourn me."

He shrugged, not bothering to deny my statement.

"Exactly. You wouldn't care if I died—why the hell should I care if a muggleborn dies? It sounds callous and awful but someone has to win, and either we go around butchering pureblood supremacists or they go around butchering muggleborns, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it—so I don't care," I finished.

My chest was heaving. It was as if these thoughts had been brewing under the surface my whole life, and the events of the past few months had called them into the light.

"That's the most _Slytherin_ sentiment I've ever heard," Black deadpanned, completely ignoring any rational or logical merit that my so-called 'Slytherin sentiment' possessed.

"Slytherin isn't an inherently bad thing. And your terrible attempt at asserting that it is, and that I should be ashamed about wanting to take care of _my_ interests first—"

"No one's saying you should be ashamed," Black scoffed. "Don't twist my words. What I'm saying is that you're –"

"A _Sltyherin whore?_" I cut in. "That I'm suddenly a villain for wanting to look out for myself and be happy and not feel cheap and used and _utterly fucking stupid_?" My voice broke, but I wasn't about to break down and cry in front of Black. At his urging, I'd spilled my innermost thoughts that I'd been seeking an audience for, and he was trying to mock me for it.

He stared at me, his gaze unwavering, but said nothing.

"And don't—_don't__—_go and tell me I'm playing 'the victim.'" I threw his words back in his face. "Just because I thought I didn't have options—but now I know I do—and you don't approve of that either? Would you be happier if I went back to groveling and letting a complete bastard like Mulciber touch me? If I was a stereotypical future Death Eater?" My coherent, logical argument was deteriorating into a disjointed emotional plea.

"Who says you need my approval?" Black asked in a quiet voice.

"I _don't_," I choked out._"_So stop passing your stupid, uninformed judgments about me. I don't need them and it's not helping and just _please_ stop." _Fuck._ I was blinking back tears, and I was vaguely aware that my line of reasoning had been derailed and turned petty and foolish, but I didn't care.

Black looked incredibly uncomfortable, and raked a hand through his hair, sighing deeply.

"I apologize."

He seemed as surprised as I was to hear those words coming out of his mouth, but he continued anyway.

"The things I said when I first met you at the Potter manor…they were stupid, to say the least. But you're wrong. You can't just ignore everything going on around you."

"I can, though. I'm going to. None of this shit matters, so I might as well think about inconsequential things like—"

"Sex?" Black supplied, an uncharacteristic hint of humor in his voice. "Finally, this conversation comes full circle. Was that whole rant a justification for why you responded 'Sex' when I asked you what was on your mind?"

His face was expressionless. The bloody boy was _teasing_ me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

"C'mon, Krupp, don't you have any self-respect?"

I flinched. He'd gone and ruined it with an unhealthy dose of Gryffindor self-righteousness.

"Black," I said, exasperated, "the whole fucking point of that tirade was that I don't give a shit what you or anyone thinks, and I respect myself enough to do what I like without letting your judgments define me. So I don't care if you think I lack self-respect. I respect myself enough to know what I want, and—"

"What you want is sex?" Black finished. He seemed to be on the verge of laughter again.

I blushed.

"Er, well, no. Yes. I don't know. But it's not your concern," I spluttered indignantly.

"You don't know?" Black asked. His voice had dropped a full octave and I wondered if that was supposed to be impressive. He walked over and sat down next to me. "Let's fine out, then."

He meant to take me by surprise, but he didn't. Not really. It should've been a melodramatic, albeit predictable, moment when enemies kissed. _Boy kisses unsuspecting girl. Girl protests, tries to slap him, eventually succumbs to his earth-shattering embrace, while thinking something along the lines of 'It's so wrong but it feels so right.'_

But I'm not one to think ridiculous thoughts like 'It's so wrong but it feels so right,' to be honest. Black was attractive, shirtless, and very kissable to a proper Slytherin that doesn't associate physical pleasure with emotions like love or even _like_.

I knew what he was doing, too, even if he didn't. He was trying to reestablish the usual dichotomy of our relationship: I was the quiet, awkward girl who didn't initiate our conversations, and he was the confident, detached boy that would occasionally condescend to speak to me. I'd wrecked that by speaking openly and without reserve—so this was his way of bringing an abnormal situation back under his control: by being the aggressor. So no, the kiss didn't really surprise me.

It's what I did that surprised _him._

I rested my hands against his bare chest, tilted my head, and kissed him back.

* * *

**A/N:** Leaving a review would be super cool of you! One word or a hundred, I really don't mind, so please take a second to write one.

Thanks to RosesInJamJars, kungfupandabear, and LeChelsis for reviewing the last chapter! :D


	7. Things Fall Apart

**Seven.  
Things Fall Apart**

His kiss was soft to start with, but when he realized that I was kissing him back, it grew more frantic.

I tangled my hands in his dark hair as he stood up and jerked me to my feet. His mouth still on mine, he pushed me back. A sigh escaped me as he paused to take a breath. I slid my hands up over his shoulders and tentatively rocked my hips against his own. My eyes fluttered shut as he groaned appreciatively, his lips against my throat.

In contrast to his broad frame, height and the confidence with which he acted, I felt small. But we were playing a game of dominance, and I didn't want to lose. Whoever pulled back first would be forfeit.

I shivered in response to his touch. His fingertips brushed against my skin as he reached down to cup my thigh and wrap my leg around him, my back pressed up against the castle wall.

_This_ was not what I'd been expecting.

His mouth hovered an inch from mine, and he gazed down at me with his cloudy grey eyes half-shut. I could smell him—sweat, alcohol, and a faint hint of overbearing cologne that he must've put on earlier in the evening. I trailed my lips down his chest, still holding his gaze. I liked the way he reacted to my touch, the way his breathing grew heavy and his eyes grew dark; it made me feel powerful. I slid my hands down his arms—Merlin, he did have nice biceps—and tried to resist the ridiculous urge to flick out my tongue and taste his bare skin.

I couldn't tell if he was doing this on purpose. I'd expected to find brief, physical pleasure in his arms, but he was making this seem more like a romantic interlude. My body ached in all the right places, but there was an explosion of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. This was a situation beyond my control. I couldn't handle _this._

"I want it to _hurt._"

My voice was strangled and soft. His heavy-lidded eyes snapped open as the last word left my tongue. I resisted the urge to look away, and held his steady gaze, my face turning stony.

"I w-want more," I whispered, biting my lip. His eyes darkened, and a corner of his mouth quirked up sardonically.

He lowered his face and brought his lips to my neck, and grazing them across my skin, whispered roughly, "Is that so?"

_Speechless._ I was speechless. His actions elicited a soft whimper from the back of my throat, and Black seemed to take this as permission to continue. He ghosted his lips over my neck, and pushed my sweater down over my shoulder to press kisses to my exposed skin.

He recaptured my lips with a kiss, and cupped the back of my neck with his hand, tilting my head back to allow him further access to my mouth. _Oh, bloody Merlin._ Black could do wonderful things with his tongue. My head swam as I relaxed against his chest, sinking into his warm embrace. He rubbed slow circles on the small of my back.

_No._ No, I wouldn't let him make this tender.

I drew my hands down to the front of his jeans and fiddled with his zipper. He drew back slightly and arched an eyebrow at my eagerness before chuckling against my lips and reaching down to take my right hand between his own. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to my palm.

I'd had enough of his kisses. I pressed my hands against his chest suddenly, putting more distance between us. He stood fixated on the spot and he watched me with a slight smile, waiting for me to make the next move.

My knees scraped against the uneven ground as I knelt before him. _This_ I could handle. This was gritty, real, and devoid of emotion. I looked up; Black was frozen, his grey eyes wide.

"W-what are you doing?" he gaped.

I blushed and looked down, dark strands of hair falling in front of my eyes. "Isn't this…what you…?" I trailed off.

"Merlin," he panted, his chest heaving. He seemed genuinely shocked—and a faint bit disgusted. "You—you really are psycho," Black said, raking a hand through his hair as he took a few cautious steps back.

I was disoriented from the sudden lack of his warmth—of his body—pressed against mine. His shocked words stole the remnants of his warmth from me. He was looking at me as if he expected some sort of explanation for why I'd pushed so hard and gone so fast. A million vague, incoherent thoughts and emotions wracked me, but there was nothing I could put into words to properly explain that I was a fucking _wreck._ That this was my idea of _normal._ I shook my head wordlessly.

Black scoffed in disbelief and turned to the door, but paused. He looked over his shoulder.

"There's a flaw in your grand plan, you know," he said, a hint of suppressed anger in his voice. "It's the value you've assigned your life. _Zero._ You have no fallback plan if a Death Eater tries to interrupt your self-imposed exile. You try to act like you don't care…and that's bullshit." He turned to face me, and crouched down to look me squarely in the eyes.

"And I think when it comes down to it, when you're faced with death, you'll _fight_ to live."

I was still on my knees as he stood and walked out, the door thudding shut behind him. I sank backwards and wrapped my arms around myself, shivering as the cold night air raised goose bumps on my skin.

I let my head rest against the wall behind me, and turned my face upwards, willing to rain to come and make me feel _clean. _I was so bloody tired. The rain didn't come, but for the first time in years, the tears did.

* * *

I was comfy. In fact, I couldn't remember being this comfy _ever._

I forced my eyes open. I was sleeping on my side, facing an open window. The sky was a murky grey color, and I couldn't tell if the sun had risen yet or not because of the thick blanket of clouds overhead.

I rolled over so I was lying flat on my back and took in my surroundings. This certainly wasn't my bed. It was too warm and firm. Plastered across the walls were posters of scantily clad female Quidditch players. That and the general state of disarray led me to believe this was a male dorm.

I turned to my left. _Oh. _There were a good six inches of space between me and the person lying next to me. Normally this would've been a rather alarming situation—waking up in an unfamiliar room with a boy lying next to me—but I recognized the shirt the boy was wearing. It was _mine. _I'd gotten it at some concert ages ago, and Jon must've stolen it. He had his face literally buried in the pillow, and I made a quick decision that "death by pillow" was a fairly lame way to die, so I adjusted it so he could breathe properly.

He was snoring softly. Aww. Cute little Jonny. One might almost mistake him for a decent human being when he was asleep and his brow wasn't furrowed in disdain.

I resisted the urge to snort as I contemplated the metaphorical resonances of the vacant space between the two of us. It was too early in the morning to form profound thoughts though, so I abandoned my analysis and poked Jon's sleeping figure.

No response.

"Jon," I hissed, and poked him again. He rolled over and threw an arm out, effectively smothering me and cutting off my air supply. _Jesus Christ, had he just slapped me in his sleep?_ I gave him a hard kick beneath the covers, and he tumbled out of the bed with a loud crash.

"Ghwawhat?" came the startled groan from the floor. I glanced around; no one else in the dorm seemed to have woken up.

There was a scuffle at the foot of the bed, and then his head appeared as he sat up on the floor.

"Oh hullo, Drea," he said groggily as he took note of my presence.

I frowned at him. "What am I doing here?" I whispered as angrily as I could.

He yawned and rubbed his head where he'd fallen. "You were being so normal at the party," he said, as if this explained my presence here. "At least, until you disappeared, you were being fairly normal. And then you fell asleep. And I didn't feel like making the trip down to the Dungeons and then all the way back up here so…I dunno," he shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

_Was that supposed to make sense?_ I smiled anyway. "Thanks."

Jon nodded, clearly uncomfortable.

"What were you doing outside on the balcony anyway?" he asked, the curiosity in his voice evident.

"Sleeping," I deadpanned. Suffice to say, I didn't want to think about last night. I knew avoiding my problems by repressing my memories of what had occurred wouldn't be helpful, but I would likely pour my heart out to Padfoot in a letter, and that would help me feel better. But until I had a quill in my hand and parchment in front of me, I didn't want to dwell on it. There was no way I could go back and fix what'd happened, so it didn't make sense to berate myself for it.

"Clearly," Jon said, with a smile.

"Why're you so happy? It's like six in the morning."

"It's nearing one o'clock in the afternoon, actually."

"What?!" I gasped, and tried to untangle myself from the bed sheets. Jon pushed me down.

"Sleep some more. You look like shit," he commented thoughtfully. I scowled at him.

"Argo came to me at the end of the night—he was bloody terrified, kept apologizing—and mentioned that he'd lost you and would be willing to pay a decent sum to compensate the Krupp family for our loss." Jon was grinning.

"I was tempted to accept the offer, of course, but Potter found you asleep on the balcony a bit later and he withdrew it."

"Pity," I sniffed.

"No kidding," Jon said mournfully, and walked over to his trunk to pull out some daywear. "Anyway…what's up with you and Potter? I get the feeling you might've been the one to sneak him in." He raised his eyebrows, smirking. _Wanker._

I couldn't bring myself to feel appropriately indignant about his assertion regarding Potter and me because for the first time in years, Jon and I were having a normal, innocuous conversation—the sort that siblings were expected to have. It was downright weird.

"What do you even mean?" I choked out.

"He freaked out when he couldn't find you—then when he did he offered to carry you down to your dormitory. I had to convince him that the Slytherins wouldn't take kindly to him making a surprise appearance in your dorm."

"Probably jinx his balls off," I suggested. Jon nodded as if this were a serious matter.

"Anyway, Potter's just like that," I explained, yawning loudly and rolling over. "He's nice to everyone. It's half the reason he has a posse of fangirls—he treats everyone like they're special."

"Everyone…or just you?" Jon looked smugly at me as he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his socks on.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"What are you? Five?"

"This many," I said, holding up four fingers.

"Just go back to sleep," Jon said, laughing lightly and reaching over to tousle my already tousled hair.

I frowned at him again. He was doing that thing where he'd briefly pretend to be a real older brother for a bit before he reverted to being an ass, and I didn't want to obey him, after all, but his bed was so damn comfy, and I felt like I could sleep for a million years, so instead of protesting, I drew the covers up around my chin and nestled in.

Before I drifted to sleep though, I distinctly heard him mutter.

"_It's bloody good to finally have you back."_

* * *

"It's the wrackspurts," James lamented as he bounced up and down on his four poster. Remus was quite sure he could see tears in James's eyes, but he decided to ignore them. He preferred to go on believing that James was at least slightly sane.

"What about the wrackspurts?" Peter asked, as he examined his toes carefully.

Remus groaned. "Don't indulge him, Pete," he cautioned. Giving James attention only encouraged his oddness.

"The wrackspurts, mate…they've finally come for Sirius," James said, placing a hand solemnly over his heart.

Peter looked up, shocked. "Is that why he didn't come back to the dorm last night?"

James shook his head sadly as Peter looked on at him in terror.

"Poor Sirius…" Peter whispered. Remus sighed. Times like these made him genuinely question the set of friends he'd chosen.

They were sitting around the dormitory because James had called for an "Official Marauders State of the Union," during which to discuss the pranks they had planned for next term (so far, none). Sirius had failed to return from the party that he, James and Peter had crashed last night, and so James was brainstorming possible reasons for Sirius's absence. Step two was to plot rescue missions to extricate Sirius from whatever situation he'd become entangled in.

The door banged open and the subject of their conversation entered, looking decidedly worse for the wear, and destroying the dramatic atmosphere in their dorm.

"Where've you been?" James jumped up excitedly, all traces of sorrow gone from his features.

"Prongs here has been suffering from separation anxiety," Remus drawled from his perch atop his trunk, where he sat cross-legged, surveying the gathering of idiots before him.

"Oh you know…about," Sirius hastily said. He'd looked bloody awful. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt looked like it had been rebuttoned on the spur of the moment, because none of the buttons were aligned. His hair stood up on end, and there were bags underneath his eyes.

All three of his friends cast him skeptical glances.

"We have to become protagonists!" Sirius exclaimed, in a poor attempt to shake off their accusing glares.

Padfoot was always exclaiming things. James had tried to tell him that exclaiming things wasn't a very dignified thing to do, and no one who went around _exclaiming _ever became Minister of Magic, or anything important, and would likely end up broke and living off of unemployment benefits. It made sense, really.

"Care to clarify?" James said sternly, adjusting his glasses. He always felt very smart when he did that.

"We have to become protagonists before people that could've been protagonists give up and decide they don't want to be in the story anymore," Sirius blurted out in one breath.

"Er, sorry?" Peter asked.

"We need to be the good guys in this story…" Sirius trailed off, as if realizing for the first time that he was spewing utter nonsense.

"What story?" Remus piped up.

"_The_ story," Sirius clarified.

James sighed and ruffled the back of his hair with his hand. His best mate was bonkers, but that wasn't anything new. This speech was a clever ruse—he'd give Padfoot that much—but he, James Potter, could see right through it.

"Enough of your twaddling, Sirius. Where have you been?"

"What the hell is twaddling? I've been...off."

"Off doing what? I'm sick of your bullywagging. Explain properly."

"What the _fuck_ is bullywagging? I've been off doing things...you know...fighting crime, et cetera."

"Uh-huh," James said skeptically. "And was this before or after you went buggyhopping?"

Sirius groaned and threw himself down dramatically on his four-poster. "Please tell me you're making this shit up."

"It's a taste of your own medicine, mate. Come clean and tell us where you were and James'll stop inventing words," Remus explained, sounding exasperated. "I'm sure in James's odd mind, that was a rational response to the situation."

Peter shuddered. "Can we stop speculating as to the contents of James's mind? I'm far too young for this."

Sirius nodded sagely. "Right on, Wormtail. Spare us the pain, Moony." He grabbed James in a headlock and rubbed the top of his head. "I don't think anyone wants to know what's in there."

James, for his part, didn't object to their verbal (and physical) abuse. He grinned and shrugged. There was no point trying to deny that he was odd.

"I was with Andrea," Sirius confessed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Er, by 'with' I mean snogging. I was snogging Andrea. And then I wandered off and passed out by the statue of Arwik the Argyle. Had a bit too much to drink, I think."

"The one on the fourth floor?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Well, that resolves the issue," Peter said, and he returned to examining his toes.

"No it doesn't," Remus sighed, rolling his eyes. "Andrea seems like she has some...baggage. Might wanna be careful there, Padfoot."

Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at them forlornly. "Yeah…she has issues. To put it mildly."

James frowned. "Sirius…Andrea's a complete fuck up. And I say that in the most affectionate way possible. If you somehow manage to fuck her up even more, I'll punch you," he said matter-of-factly.

Sirius blanched. "Er, right on, mate. If you don't mind me, I'm going to sleep for a disturbingly long time. Just warning you beforehand so you don't think I've accidentally gone into hibernation or anything," he explained, as he climbed into his bed.

James grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hoisted him up.

"Oi! Listen up! She's given me some really solid advice, and she's actually a very nice person—"

Sirius's eyebrows shot up. "Are we talking about the same person?"

James continued as if he hadn't interrupted, "and anyhow, aren't you seeing Mary McDonald?"

Sirius coughed and eyed his friends meekly. "Er...well, yeah."

Remus rolled his eyes again. "That's it. I'm done with this conversation. It's inevitably going to end with someone getting hexed, and I refuse to let it be me."

Peter stood up. "I have an announcement to make," he said. His friends eyed him warily.

"What is it, Pete?" Sirius asked.

"I am very confused," Peter declared.

Sirius groaned and sank back onto the bed.

Remus spoke up. "Start from the beginning Sirius. How did you end up snogging Andrea? And what was that bit about protagonists?"

"I thought you were done with this conversation," Sirius snapped.

Remus tutted. "Get on with it, mate. We're going to find out one way or the other so you may as well spill."

"Okay. Fine. Well, we were arguing about protagonists. And such," he said broadly. His friends stared at him, their confusion evident. "And by that I mean…Merlin, I don't fucking _know. _It's so hard to explain," Sirius said, raking a hand through his hair.

"We argued, and I guess that's the main part. She was being unbearably Slytherin about it, and I felt like I had something to prove so I kissed her. Then she kissed me back, which was surprising. Then she sort of pushed it a bit far and I freaked out and ran off. But first, I er, called her psychotic."

Sirius looked at James sheepishly. "So are you going to punch me?"

James shook his head. "Not me. But Mary might," he added brightly.

"And Andrea might, too, if she sees you kissing Mary," Remus said. "That should be punishment enough."

Sirius laughed. "Punishment for what? They were honest mistakes."

"…"

Sirius glanced around worriedly. "What? What is it?"

"You've been playing mind games with a girl that's like…depressed. Or something like that," James said slowly.

"…and that's your idea of an honest mistake?" Remus asked.

"Don't even try and act like she's a damsel in distress, or some shit," Sirius said, sounding more than a little pissed off. "She can take care of herself, trust me. And if she even heard you guys talking about her as if she was vulnerable, she'd hex you into oblivion."

"…Right," James said, looking a bit sad.

Sirius shook off the sense of discontent that was coming over him and forced himself to agree.

"Right."

* * *

**A/N:** Meow. Thanks for reading! Please consider taking a second to leave a review! Even if it's just one word like "good" or "bad" it still makes me really happy and motivates me to write more, hehe. (Longer would be nicer if possible, though :P)

Anyway, I've never written kiss scenes before…how was this one? Awkward? Realistic? Unrealistic? :D

& Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last chapter! You guys are amazing.


	8. Daybreak

**Eight.**  
**Daybreak**

Sometime in the late afternoon, I'd left the Ravenclaw Tower and went for an ambling walk on the grounds. I didn't have much to do, seeing as it was a Sunday, and I preferred solitude to having to go to the Slytherin common room and converse with other members of my house.

As the sun began to set, I hurried inside to eat dinner. The hall was packed as usual, and there weren't seats available where I usually sat, so I took one next to a group of first year Slytherins. The tables were set, but the dishes were empty. At the staff table, Headmaster Dumbledore was smiling benevolently at the students. The only time he bothered to show up to regular mealtimes was at the beginning and end of term, or when he had something to say.

He stood, his chair creaking loudly as the hall quieted under his gaze.

"These are the times that try a man's very spirit," Dumbledore began. He stared at the mass of students cramped into their House tables through his half-moon glasses.

"Darkness is falling fast, but there is ever a light to hinder its descent. It is not one man who stands against the night that threatens to consume us. It must be all of us. United against the great evil that descends upon Britain." He paused and swept his gaze across the Great Hall.

"I do think that you all know what it is that I speak of," he said, with a kind smile. "The man who calls himself Lord Voldemort – " he paused for a brief moment as ripples of shock traveled through the hall at his brazen pronouncement, then continued – "has risen to power, and is threatening the very sanctity of the lives we lead."

I felt sick to my stomach. _Was this necessary? _The sanctity of whose lives, exactly, did he plan on protecting? His? His fellow Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs that hadn't been shoved into a house – at the tender age of eleven – and branded evil? Part of me knew that I sought out the flaws in his broad statements because I was predisposed to disagree with him, but I also felt a sense of discontent at his rhetoric filled speech. Something wasn't right.

"I ask not that you stand with me," Dumbledore said softly. "I ask only that you stand for what you believe in. I ask that you follow the path your heart has laid out before you."

_Or,_ I thought, _perhaps it makes more sense to follow one's brain, and be rational for a change, rather than trusting blindly in your emotions and –_

"Nitwid! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!" the wizard cried, disrupting my train of thoughts as he gestured wildly across the hall, knocking his hat askew.

The empty dishes before us were suddenly laden with food. Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration stated that food and other organic substances couldn't be spontaneously transfigured from thin air, so I knew that despite the crazed Headmaster's theatrics, this wasn't a grand show of magic on his part, but rather the handiwork of the house elves. I rolled my eyes.

I didn't have much of an appetite. I knew I ought to eat, and that my family scolded me for being too thin, but the thought of food was completely unappealing right now. Despite having spent nearly the entire day in bed, I wanted nothing more than to rest some more. I looked around the hall, waiting for the first signs of other students leaving so I could make my departure without drawing attention to myself. I caught sight of a couple sitting together.

The way they were tucked around each other on the bench – while not inappropriate or unsuited for a public place – clearly showed the nature of their relationship. With a start, I realized who they were. Sirius Black and Mary McDonald. He grinned and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, leaning in towards her as she whispered something in his ear. He pulled back, his barking laughter lost in the packed hall. Mary McDonald pouted at him, grabbed him by his robes and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

I sat two table-widths away, tracing the patterns in the wood paneled surface. I was quite sure no one was looking at me. All the same, I suddenly felt myself growing flushed.

I felt embarrassed and stupid. And even a little bit sad.

* * *

The forest was silent except for the sound of twigs and leaves crunching underfoot as Remus Lupin and I made our way through. The 6th year Care of Magical Creatures was a small one, and save for Lupin and myself, most of the other students in it had assumed it would be an easy class that they would be able to spend enjoyably outdoors. No one had really expected to return from it on a weekly basis covered in burns, stings, and once in a while, blood.

I'd stuck with it only because I genuinely did enjoy going outdoors, and because I'd been partnered with Lupin on the first day, and he'd volunteered to do most of the dirty work. Today, we were supposed to be searching for distinctive yellow flowers that, when uprooted, proved to be gurdyroots, which were especially valuable for potions making. Professor Kettleburn had cleared it with the caretaker, Rubeus Hagrid, to ensure that we would be allowed to venture into the Forbidden Forest as long as we stayed within a quarter miles distance of the castle.

Lupin and I had been searching for the flowers for the past fifteen minutes to no avail.

"So," Lupin said casually, toeing a knurled root in front of him. "What did you think of Dumbledore's speech last night?"

His speech had been the sole topic of conversation throughout the school. It seemed that everyone, no matter how under-informed they were on the state of current affairs, had an opinion to offer on the matter.

I made a face. A rather unattractive one. Lupin laughed.

"Really? This summer you seemed eager to support – "

"I was wrong," I said stiffly, mentally willing him to be silent. I resumed perusing the forest floor, and took a few steps ahead.

"Why change your mind?" his voice came from behind me. My whole body tensed for a moment, then I sighed, realizing I was being ridiculous.

"This summer," I said quietly, "I was eager to get even with my ex-boyfriend." The words sounded silly coming out of my mouth, and I hurried to clarify. "It sounds stupid but yeah. I just wanted to spite him. By aligning myself with people that stood for a cause that he disagreed with, I guess."

I turned to look at Lupin. He seemed faintly amused but simply nodded and said, "Oh." I took it for granted that he knew that I was referring to Mulciber, and on the off chance that he didn't, I wasn't about to tell him my life story.

I shrugged. "And now that I've bothered to form an honest opinion on it…I don't really care for either side."

I shook my pitifully empty bucket and sighed. "We should really get on with – "

I broke off, having gotten a proper look at his face. He seemed bemused.

"What?" I demanded, growing frustrated. The sooner we finished this task, the sooner we'd be able to return to the castle and escape the cold.

"You don't care for either side? You Know Who wants to _murder_ people."

"Watch out," I said, a hint of laughter creeping into my voice, "your Gryffindor is showing." The wind picked up and whistled through the sparse canopy of trees overhead, causing a shower of golden leaves to filter through the air.

"I'm not joking – I just – I know you're a Slytherin but you seem so reasonable and I know for a fact that you're fairly intelligent – we _study_ together. How the hell can you think that both sides are – "

I frowned at him. Clearly agreeing to study with someone was the ultimate form of kinship for Remus Lupin. I choked back a derisive laugh. Lupin was generally so calm and unshakeable that his sudden lack of composure (and coherency) was surprising.

"Don't you see?" I said grimly. "You find it blasphemous to even question Dumbledore. Isn't there something wrong with that? Sure, maybe his values are a bit more ethical than You Know Who's, but there's something fucked up about not even being able to – "

"I'll say it again," Lupin spat, "_Voldemort_," he enunciated the word carefully, "wants to _murder_ people. For no fault of their own. You think Muggleborns and half-bloods deserve that?"

"And Dumbledore doesn't want to kill people?" I rolled my eyes.

Lupin's eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he could.

"I worded that poorly. Dumbledore doesn't want to kill people. I'll give you that. But he finds it _necessary_ to do so. He and his lot don't want to eradicate the stupid wizarding hierarchy they've bought into, or even extricate themselves from it – no, they want to rearrange it so that someone they approve of can reign at the top."

The words escaped me before I could truly process what I was saying. Belatedly, I realized they were what I genuinely believed.

Whether it was Dumbledore or Voldemort that ultimately emerged victorious was of no matter to me. It was of no consequence to most of the students at Hogwarts, really, but it was inevitable that most of them would, at some point in their lives, be caught up on either side of a war that they had no vested interest in.

It was equally inevitable that some of them would die for a cause they didn't truly understand. And that, to me, was unforgiveable.

I trudged forward, my conspicuously empty bucket banging against the back of my legs. The wind had chosen this particular moment to die down, and the stillness of the forest air was suffocating. It felt as if the trees had grown denser, and a chill crept up my spine. I looked back quickly to ensure that Lupin was still in sight.

He was staring back at me.

"You're underestimating the Dark Lord," he said. "Say that…zero is a baseline for how good or bad a person is. And the scale stretches to negative and positive infinity in either direction. If you look at it from my perspective, Dumbledore would be positive, but from yours, I suppose his assigned value would be negative – but anyhow, You Know Who is far, far more negative than Dumbledore," he said, with a slight smile.

"You're good at math for a wizard," I said, amused. Then a moment too late, I remembered. "You're a _half-blood_," I said, wide-eyed. If I'd recalled that earlier I wouldn't have been so aggressive when it came to deriding Dumbledore, who famously championed muggleborn and half-blood equality.

Lupin offered me a sheepish grin. "Let's agree to disagree, then?" He extended a hand, and I shook it quickly with a remorseful smile, relieved that he'd wrapped up our conversation so neatly.

We wandered the forest for a few minutes longer, still sticking close to the clearing and making sure that the spirals of the castle were always within sight.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, when I found a patch of yellow flowers. I pulled them up by the handful, and Lupin hurried over to steal my loot. I elbowed him out of the way, at which point he elbowed me back and I toppled over, the contents of my bucket spilling. I suppose I could've chosen to be affronted and he would've made a hasty apology, but instead I laid my head back for a brief moment and laughed.

God, it felt bloody _wonderful_ to laugh. It was therapeutic, almost. This was precisely what I needed, I realized. Spontaneity and laughter, and to stop worrying so much.

Lupin leveled me with an odd look before lounging back against a nearby tree with a smile on his face.

"I may as well take advantage of your sudden good mood and ask you something that's been on my mind…" Lupin trailed off. I raised my eyebrows.

"I heard that you and Sirius…you know." Lupin said, still grinning.

I stopped cold.

"That prat," I hissed. Now it was his turn to laugh.

"He mentioned you kissed, is all," he said, his attempt at sounding offhand very contrived. I could feel my face grow hot. I didn't want to think about Sirius Black right now. The disgusted look on his face when he'd rejected me made me feel nauseous. Never again would I put myself in that kind of a position.

Lupin seemed to take note of my sudden discomfort.

"Andrea," Lupin said, sliding down the trunk to sit down as well, "I want to be your friend."

I blinked in surprise. "Where did that come from?" I said, smiling weakly.

Lupin shrugged. "This is enjoyable. Mentally stimulating debate," he said, chuckling, "searching for elusive gurdyroots and studying. Turns out those are hobbies that I enjoy."

"Sure," I said. He looked at me quizzically. "Sure, let's be friends," I clarified.

"Brilliant!" he exclaimed loudly enough that I nearly flinched. "So. You and Sirius?"

I gaped at him.

"Friends generally tell each other these sorts of things," he said seriously, patting me on the arm.

"You should've been in Slytherin," I scoffed, but he continued looking at me expectantly.

I sighed and tucked an errant lock of hair behind my ear. "You said it yourself. We kissed and that was all."

It was true, too. Sirius Black was attractive and quite possibly a good shag if his kissing was any indication of how good he was in bed, but like most Gryffindors, he was ruled by his heart rather than his head. In colloquial terms, he was tragically stupid.

I didn't want to waste time on a boy that spent his youth partying and blindly accepting the half-truths fed to him by misguided do-gooders.

Lupin nodded thoughtfully. "Hm."

I eyed him warily. "What about you and Sirius?" I asked. He blinked at me, confused.

"We're mates," he said, sounding unsure, then realized what I'd been implying. He jumped to his feet, shocked. "Oh god – no. _No. _Not like _that._"

I laughed and stood up to pat him on the arm. "Friends tell each other these things," I said sagely, and he shot me a feral scowl. He stomped away as I gathered up the fallen flowers, and then we headed back to the castle.

* * *

I was sitting on the floor of the Owlery again, contemplating what I should write to Padfoot. It was after hours, but I didn't suppose anyone else would be up here this late to catch me. Today had been a fairly good day, especially my brief excursion outside the castle walls with Lupin, but the usual sense of melancholy that haunted me had once again stolen over me.

There was so much I wanted to tell him. I desperately needed to vent and spill all the pent up emotions inside of me and know that someone was listening. I'd been on edge, waiting for this opportunity ever since the disastrous night of the Halloween Bash.

I drew up a fresh piece of parchment from my rucksack, dipped my quill in an inkwell, and began to write furiously.

_Padfoot, there's something wrong with me. I was sad two days ago, then I was happy yesterday, and I was sad last night, then happy today, but I feel like despite that, I've disliked myself all along. It's this niggling sense of inadequacy that hides beneath whatever emotion I'm experiencing at any given time. It's always there._

I bit my lip and surveyed what I'd written. This was heavier than anything I'd ever sent Padfoot before, but I couldn't help myself. The words kept coming as quickly as my thoughts.

_I'm such a fraud. I'm lying to everyone and I'm lying to myself and even to you, Padfoot, you probably think I'm some lovely, decent girl, but I'm a fraud. I'm so sick and tired of being sick and tired and I want to be carefree and happy but I find pleasure in all the wrong things – I find happiness in the pages of a book and taking walks when it's far too cold out to be taking a walk because it makes me feel awake and alive and –_

I paused for a moment to regain control of myself. My hand was shaking too much to even write, and the words had blurred into an incoherent mess. My chest heaved with short, gasping breaths.

_I want to be happy the way other people are happy. I want it because I feel like I'm supposed to want these things – kisses and friends and smiles – even though those things don't make me happy. Kisses make me feel dirty and friends scare me._

I sniffed audibly and dropped the quill, my hands wrapping around my slight frame. I couldn't help thinking of Sirius Black. _This_ was what had bothered me so much about the scene I'd witnessed in the Great Hall last night. It wasn't the fact that Sirius Black had a girlfriend. It was his girlfriend's easy grace; it was the way she leaned in to give him a quick kiss with the absolute certainty that it would be reciprocated.

That it would be appreciated.

I wanted that. I wanted that confidence and sense of security.

I sat there in the dark for a few minutes, counting the seconds as they escaped, and trying to relax my tensed limbs. My eyes were dry, but my throat ached, and I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

I frowned at the piece of parchment in front of me. There was no bloody way I could post this. I whispered, "Incendio," hoarsely, and watched as it lit up and crumpled inwards slowly as it was consumed by my contained flame.

I took out a fresh sheet of parchment and tried to formulate a humorous way to express the sense of inadequacy I was experiencing. Because this was what Padfoot and I did for each other. We cracked silly jokes that hid the true extent of our emotions, and carried on a bullshit relationship that helped us cope, if nothing else.

I scrawled a quick note on the page.

_Have you ever seen muggle movies where the girl gets a makeover and reinvents herself? Do you think I should dye my hair blonde and date a Quidditch player?_

_Yours in love and war,_

_Anon_

I sent the letter off, and sat back down, deciding I would wait fifteen minutes max for a response before calling it quits and heading for my dormitory. Ten minutes later I was rewarded with a response:

_Will that make you happy?_

_Yours in hate and peace,_

_Padfoot_

For some reason, I was stunned by his reply. _Who the hell was he to question my happiness? _It was completely irrational to feel angry at him for asking me such a simple question when I had been evaluating my happiness a few moments ago. But it was different – of course it was different. Padfoot was supposed to support me, to laugh and to respond jokingly.

I didn't need him to actively _help_ me. It wasn't that I had some deep set psychological aversion to receiving aid. I just didn't want anyone trying to prompt me to…to reevaluate myself. I could – _and would_ – help myself. I didn't require anyone's pity.

His well-intentioned question had thoroughly pissed me off. I flipped the piece of parchment over and scrawled an angry response on the back. If he was expecting an honest answer, he would get one.

_Bloody hell, Padfoot. I was joking. I'd be grateful to stop feeling vaguely suicidal. Feeling happy is a bit of a stretch, though._

I coaxed a snowy white owl down from her perch, and sent her off with my note. Minutes passed. A quarter hour. Through the open window, I could see the moon hanging precariously in the night sky, wrapped in sheath of filmy clouds.

I lit one cigarette, then another, drawing the toxic air into my lungs and holding it there as long as I could bear it. Finally, the owl returned. I jumped to my feet expectantly. I'd been half worried that I'd gone and said too much – that I'd scared him off. The owl descended gracefully, then returned to her perch without dropping off my letter.

I frowned. "Accio letter," I waved my wand.

Nothing happened.

"Accio letter," I tried again, with a twinge of fear. Again, nothing happened.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to hold back a frantic curse. The owl had returned without a response. _Oh dear Merlin. Shit shit shit._ I'd said too much. Inexplicably, I felt tears prick at my eyes. I rested my back to the wall and slid down so I was sitting cross legged on the floor, my elbows balanced on my knees, my hands pressed to my face.

_Stupid._ I chastised myself. I was so fucking stupid. Stupid for sitting here crying over a boy I didn't know, stupid for having sent that letter, and stupid for being up so late on a school night. That last thought grounded me and had me choking on laughter despite my unshed tears. I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet, and resolved to resume my one woman pity party once I'd returned to the safety of my bed in the Slytherin dormitory.

I descended the steps down from the Owlery after casting _Lumos_ then extinguished it as I reached the main corridors of Hogwarts. I couldn't risk getting caught by patrolling Prefects or teachers.

As I walked through the school (it was bloody inconvenient that the Owlery was in one of the tallest towers and the Slytherin common room was in the deepest dungeons, really), I heard someone whistling. It was a bit eerie at first, but I'd swear they were whistling the jaunty tune to a song by a muggle band called The Beatles that Jon had introduced me to.

_Here Comes the Sun._ That was what they were whistling. I followed the noise, half-expecting to come across Jon in the hallway. When I came across the source of the noise, I barely smothered my urge to groan.

Regulus's eyes lit up with recognition as he saw me. "Oh, hullo!" he called happily.

I'd spoken to him a few times since he'd unceremoniously chosen to eat breakfast with me, and each time had been progressively odder. He'd come up to me three days ago asking me if I had spare socks. Argyle ones, to be specific. I'd apologized and politely told him that I didn't, and he'd clapped me on the back like an old friend and told me not to worry. The day before that he'd nearly ran into me in the corridor after class and told me his pet cat Merlin was missing, and apologized in advance in the advent that his cat should ever take the liberty of pissing on any of my possessions. I'd been completely speechless, but he'd thanked me earnestly when I agreed to pass along his message to the rest of my dorm mates at his request.

"Hullo!" he called again.

I flinched. He was making no effort to sneak along quietly, and it seemed like it would be only a matter of time before he was caught out. He was waving me to come forward, though, and it would've been incredibly awkward – not to mention rude – to turn around and head the other way now, especially since we were both heading to the Slytherin dungeons.

I fell into step with him reluctantly.

"Late night?" he said cheerily.

I nodded, and he flashed me a dazzling smile.

"Likewise," he said. We lapsed into silence.

I looked at him as he ambled along beside me. He was aristocratically good looking the way most purebloods were. Dark haired and bright-eyed, with high cheekbones. Only most pureblood Slytherins walked around perpetually scowling, and Regulus's brow was smooth, and a faint smile graced his face.

"I can't figure you out," I blurted out suddenly.

He didn't miss a step. He turned to me and smiled beatifically. "That's part of the plan."

"…What plan?"

He seemed to ponder over this for a moment before responding. "I have no bloody idea. It just felt like a good thing to say."

I stared at him. _Was he mad?_

"I'm perfectly sane," he said hastily, as if answering my unspoken question.

I found myself grinning at him inexplicably. Perhaps he was as baffled by the temperamental nature of his actions as I was. He gave me a stern look that broke into a tentative smile when he realized I wasn't laughing at his expense.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, and a looming shadow appeared on the wall behind us. _Oops._ I gripped Regulus by his arm, pulled him into an alcove behind a tapestry, and peered over the edge of the wall to check the coast. Regulus was pressed flush against me, so close I could _smell _him. And he smelled of…perfume?

With a start, I realized that the reason he was suddenly so happy and was awake so late at night must've been that he'd been engaged in some sort of tryst with a female student.

A prefect I didn't recognize hurried past in one of the adjoining corridors. Regulus and I waited a full minute before daring to step back into the corridor we were in. Or, more accurately, _I _stepped out. Regulus _jumped_ out, landed lightly on his feet, and spun.

"We've survived!" he proclaimed triumphantly.

"You make no sense," I couldn't resist saying, as I bit my lip to hold back my light-headed laughter. Apparently his perpetual smile was contagious, as it was exceedingly hard to focus on my predicament from the Owlery when I was near him.

"Neither do you," he shot back, looking up at me through his dark locks.

"I've heard that quite frequently lately," I said, as we resumed walking. _From your brother. _It occurred to me that I rarely associated Regulus with his brother. It was strange that initially, I'd thought Regulus to be an enigma. I hadn't understood his motives or his actions. I'd thought Sirius to be clear cut: a stereotypical Gryffindor, self-absorbed, and pretentious. I'd gotten them mixed up.

Regulus was the one that didn't bother to mask his true self. The more I interacted with him, the more I was beginning to realize that the reason I couldn't understand him was because there _was_ nothing to understand. Regulus lived in the moment and did whatever he felt like doing. His actions at any given moment could be indecipherable and contradictory, because they weren't necessarily meant to achieve any greater purpose.

It was Sirius Black that was the enigma. I'd thought him to be shameless and arrogant, but when I'd basically thrown myself at him – and he'd been aroused – he'd still pushed me away.

The bloody Black brothers were giving me a migraine.

Regulus was watching me curiously as I worked these thoughts out in my mind, then flashed me a quick smile when I raised my gaze to meet his.

We were nearing the entrance to the dungeons. A loud hoot came from the last window before the descent underground. Regulus and I both turned towards it. _Bloody hell._ It was Padfoot's owl – _Lilliput, I think?_ – and she didn't seem pleased to be delivering messages this late at night.

When Regulus saw the poor owl his eyebrows shot up so high that they threatened to disappear into his hair line. He hurried to the window and coaxed the owl in. Lilliput nipped his fingers fondly, and allowed him to extract the letter clutched in her talons, then flew off through the open window.

"That's mine," I blurted out.

He glanced at me, amused, the letter still clutched firmly in his hand. "I'm quite sure this is mine, actually. I've been expecting this for a while."

I blinked. "_I've_ been expecting it for a while," I said slowly. "Since like…an hour ago."

He opened the letter before I could protest, and scanned it quickly.

"Right you are," he said, the surprise evident in his voice. He handed the piece of parchment to me and I snatched it out of his hand.

I blushed, furious. "It isn't proper to read someone else's mail."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I only checked to see who it was addressed to. I'm not quite sure it's intended for you either. It's addressed to a certain – "

"It's mine," I repeated breathlessly. He hesitated for a moment, and then gave me a curt nod.

He was trying to look indifferent, but he was eyeing me strangely. "I mistook the owl for one that belongs to a friend of mine," he said brightly, the tone of his voice completely at odds with the curious way he was looking at me.

"Janus Flint," he announced. "That's who I thought it belonged to. Fifth year Ravenclaw. Do you know him?"

I shook my head no, and he shrugged again.

"Well, I'm calling it a night then," Regulus said, and doffed an imaginary hat in my direction.

"Good night, Regulus," I said hollowly, and I'd swear the faintest hint of a blush crept up his face as I said his name. He swept off down the stairs, his robes billowing dramatically behind him, then stumbled over their hem, promptly recovered his balance, and continued on in his ironically dignified manner.

What an odd bloke.

I lingered a moment, toying with the idea of opening Padfoot's missive then and there, but decided to do it once I was in bed. I rushed down the steps with an unexpected surge of energy, dreading what the letter would contain. I knew I was overreacting – Padfoot had never written anything that I didn't want to read, so it was a strange experience to be so nervous about the contents of one of his letters. Usually, I was eager.

And I was eager, in a different way. I wanted to know what he said, but I was also the slightest bit scared that he'd call me out. That he'd point out that I was being unreasonable. That'd he'd come to the conclusion that I'd scarcely admitted earlier this night: that I was lying to myself by writing joking letters to him that poorly concealed my own discontent. That I wasn't as collected as I appeared.

The common room was empty when I entered it, so Regulus must have head off to his dorm already. I entered mine quietly, slipped into my bed, opened the letter and read it.

And read it again, as my heart quickened its pace, and a soft smile slipped across my face.

* * *

**A/N:** HELLO :3 This is the longest chapter yet! As usual, thank you for reading & _**I'd be super-duper grateful if you'd spare a second to write a review.**_ Maybe drop me a quick note on what you think of the characters, or what you think'll happen next, etc. It's easily done and makes my day! I usually try to respond to reviews individually, but what with the snow storm I just had where I live (thee feet, hell yeah) and my crappy internet connection, I wasn't able to. So thank you to everyone that reviewed the last chapter! ILY all.

On to the actual A/N (the part where I'm not begging for reviews)! The next chapter will start with Padfoot's letter! :) And don't worry, there won't be much Dumbledore bashing. It's just that Andrea's a Slytherin and you're getting the story from her perspective. In my mind, not all Slytherins are unquestioning sycophants (they're supposed to be cunning, after all) so I tried to paint a picture of someone that would dislike Dumbledore for legitimate reasons.


	9. Nona and Footpad

**Nine.****  
****Nona and Footpad**

I pulled on a cable knit sweater over my button down, and smoothed my green skirt down nervously as I examined my reflection in the mirror. I had nice legs—well, the sort that girls think are nice and envy more than boy's appreciate: long, and model thin. I didn't usually bother with makeup—mostly because I didn't have the extraordinary willpower necessary to wake up early enough to do a decent job of it. Today I'd had hours at my disposal before I was required to make an appearance, though.

Of course, it wasn't just that—today I wanted to feel pretty. When I met Mulciber today, I wanted to show him that I'd moved on, and was my own person. I'd gone to extra lengths to look my best without actually looking like I'd put effort into looking my best.

…Oh my god, I was passive aggressively putting on makeup.

I'd applied it with a light hand—some concealer where it was necessary, smudged liquid liner on my lower lash line, mascara, and a faint hint of silver shadow at the corner of my eyes.

The end result didn't really make much of a difference; I was still fairly average looking, albeit far too thin. It would take a miracle for me to even remotely resemble buxom, blonde beauties like Mary McDonald, or dark eyed temptresses like Marlene McKinnon. I wasn't hoping for my appearance to dramatically improve, though. I wanted to feel secure in the knowledge that I was looking after myself; that I was presenting myself in the best possible light.

Truth be told, whatever confidence I might have derived from small comforts like applying makeup paled in comparison to the self-assurance I'd felt upon reading the letter Padfoot had sent me nearly a week ago. It was still lying on my bed stand, its surface worn smooth by my hands.

I needed all the confidence I could muster up for my lunch with Mulciber today. He'd approached me two days ago after dinner in the Great Hall and told me that we had to meet urgently, and that it was a matter of great importance. I'd been too startled to disagree with him publicly and risk causing a scene, so I'd quietly acquiesced.

I picked up Padfoot's letter once more and scanned it quickly.

_Anon—let me tell you a story._

_There once lived a lad named Footpad. He was a rollicking, good-looking, blessed boy that should've been adored by all, but was born into a very shitty family. He had few friends, but the best of them was Nona. Nona had wings and used to fly over the village that Footpad grew up in, sending him messages from time to time, and everyone loved her—but not because she could fly. Nona was loved because she was the most beautiful person anyone had ever met._

_Footpad often wished he had a way to tell Nona that he was incredibly grateful for her messages, and that they helped him out an immeasurable amount when he was struggling to deal with his aforementioned "very shitty family," but Footpad was tragically awkward when it came to things like that, so he never told her how thankful he was, or how wonderful he thought Nona was._

_One day, Nona's wings started to molt. One by one, her feathers tumbled down from the sky, and she could hardly stay in flight. Footpad was terrified that she would fall, and was like, "Fuck this, I'm not going to let Nona fall down, because I think she is a really cool person and friends don't let friends fall down from the sky."_

_So Footpad set out on a great quest to discover the reason why Nona's feathers were molting. He donned his cap and his cloak and rode out on horseback (how a lowly village boy procured a horse is a mystery—perhaps he was simply so good looking that it was given to him freely), and came upon a great big dragon._

_The dragon's name was Teenage Hormones, and it had placed a curse on Nona so that she felt "vaguely suicidal," and being "vaguely suicidal" was what was making her wings not work. Footpad was distraught. He tried time and time again to slay the dragon, but it was a dangerous task. Every time he tried, Teenage Hormones lashed out, and Nona grew angry._

_Footpad was beginning to worry that he would never be able to solve Nona's problems. He was also beginning to understand that maybe Nona didn't want him to slay the dragon for her, because maybe she wanted to slay the dragon herself._

_So Footpad decided to back off. He put away his weapons and took off his cloak and hat, and let his horse graze. He decided to wait for Nona. He sent Nona one last message, telling her that she could respond any time that she liked, and he would do his utmost to be there for her while she battled her dragon._

_And he promised himself, that by some chance, if Nona didn't succeed and the curse made her wings fail, he would be there, waiting patiently to catch her when she fell so he could help her mend her wings._

_And that is the story of Nona and Footpad._

_-Padfoot_

It was clumsily written and embarrassingly honest, and on the third or fourth time I'd reread it, my inner critic had become aware of the litany of grammatical errors that riddled it—but I must've read it more than a dozen times by now, and each time I did I could feel a wave of warmth wash over me, and a slight smile tug at the corners of my mouth. The wordplay was bloody adorable, and I was more than convinced that Padfoot was a Ravenclaw now, because the letter was too damn clever to be from anyone else.

I couldn't seem to write a reply. I didn't know how. It wasn't the sort of thing I could form a verbal reply to, but if Padfoot were here in front of me now, I'd have given him a hug.

I tucked the letter safely into my trunk, then, examined my appearance one last time. I smiled shakily at my reflection in the mirror, and hurried to the common room to meet Mulciber.

* * *

"I apologize for my earlier actions."

The words dropped like knives from Mulciber's lips. They were sharply spoken, but blunt and to the point. Those six words alone made me want to jump up and leave—clearly something was terribly wrong here. This wasn't the boy I remembered.

Apart from a formal greeting, we'd walked in silence from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade, and I'd felt as if the eyes of the entire school were upon me. He was still dressed in deep black wizarding robes, and I seen a faint sneer of disgust mark his face when he noted my muggle clothing—but for once, he'd had no disparaging remark to hurl at me. He'd simply offered me his arm in silence, and I'd tentatively reached out and taken it.

He'd led me to the Hog's Head Inn, and I hadn't question his choice. He'd clearly had something on his mind—and the urgency of his request when he'd bid me to come out with him today likely meant that he required privacy. The Hog's Head had been the perfect choice, because enough students came that our conversation would appear to be of no notice, but it would also provide the right environment for him to divulge whatever it was that was on his mind.

So yes, I'd expected it to be something troubling—but not an _apology._

He saw the surprise on my face, and snorted.

"Well?" he asked.

"I…okay," I said, glancing around the inn. I felt uncomfortable as hell. I could feel him watching me, waiting for my reaction, but I didn't precisely know what to say. I was half convinced this was his idea of a joke.

"Why?" I asked suddenly, breaking the brief silence that had descended between us.

"Don't question me," he growled, and reached for my hand across the table, but I snatched it back. The door to the inn banged open, and a group of students walked in.

_Damn it._ I looked away quickly so that they didn't catch my eye; the group was comprised of Potter, Pettigrew, Black, and his new _friend_—Mary McDonald. Mulciber hadn't even glanced their way, but was scowling at me across the table.

"Why did you ask me to come here, then?" I asked him, my voice unwavering. I wouldn't let him bully me into silence.

He frowned. "I don't know."

The bartender, a man with startling blue eyes and a full beard approached us, and Mulciber directed his attention towards him for a brief moment as he ordered for the both of us. The man went to the bar and returned moments later with two mugs of butterbeer and assured us that our food would be prepared shortly.

"Mulciber—Mul—I need to know why I'm here," I said softly, not wanting to incur his wrath, or attract the attention of any of the Gryffindors that had seated themselves two tables away.

He lowered his head, and exhaled.

"My father's arranged a marriage for me," he said finally. "I'm to be married next summer."

"Congratulations," I said. I didn't know how to react. I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was. Mulciber was from an old, pureblood family that arranged marriages for all their heirs.

The bearded man returned with our food: steak for Mulciber, and salad and rice for me. There was probably a subtle insult mixed in with his choice of food for me, but I couldn't fathom it at the moment. I was struggling to deal with the knowledge that I'd just acquired.

He dug in immediately, while I simply sat there and stared down at my plate. I watched him for a second, and was overcome by a queer feeling. I was struck by the thought that here and now—this very moment—was the youngest that either of us would ever be. There was no going back now; there was only the interminable future stretching before us.

I felt scared. _This was it. _This was where Mulciber and I parted ways. I found myself not mourning the relationship we'd had—that had been toxic. It had fucked with my mind and pushed me as close to the edge as I could without going over. No, I was mourning the future that could've been, and I was mourning the premature death of the boy that Mulciber never had the opportunity to be.

He was seventeen, in the servitude of a dark wizard, and betrothed to a girl he had likely never met before.

There was a slight commotion from the side of the room as someone's chair tipped over. I looked over, snapping out of my reverie. Of course it was Potter. I let my gaze linger; my anxiety had disappeared, and I didn't care much who saw me now.

Potter righted himself and his chair, laughing along with his friends, and caught sight of me looking at him. A puzzled and concerned look flitted across his face. I nodded in greeting across the room, and he did the same before turning to Black and whispering in his ear. Black looked over a moment later, a fierce scowl on his face.

I ducked my head. I didn't want to deal with him now.

I wondered vaguely why Mulciber had revealed his vulnerabilities to me so suddenly. Perhaps all Mulciber wanted was sex, but he wasn't Slytherin enough to take it without asking. Or perhaps—and this was more likely—he needed me to go back to the way I used to be—blindly supporting him, giving him my affection, giving him all of myself until I was hollowed out.

I felt strangely good about having come to meet him, though. Talking to him in a public place where I felt safe had helped me cope with the series of changes that were ongoing in my life at the moment.

He'd cleared his plate, and placed two galleons and a sickle on the table to cover the cost of the meal.

I could see Black watching out of the corner of my eye. His jaw was clenched, and his face expressionless. His gaze flickered away as I reached out and took Mulciber's hand.

"Andrea," Mulciber said gruffly, by way of farewell, and brought my hand nearly to his lips.

I tilted my head to the side a bit, and examined him. He wasn't handsome in the conventional way—he might even have been considered ugly by many. His features were too strong and his eyes were too angry.

I used to find him irresistible—broad shouldered and strong. His body seemed to spill out of the confines of his robes, unrestrained, with raw, unrefined strength. His jaw was angular, his eyebrows two dark slashes above his deeply set eyes, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Compared to him, the rest of the boys at Hogwarts had seemed youthful—childish, even.

But now it was as if he was hardly there at all. He gave the impression of a man that was caving in on himself; his shoulders were hunched forward as if he was the sole bearer of an immeasurable burden.

"Mulciber," I said in reply, my gaze still fixated on him.

He nodded curtly and dropped my hand. His chair scraped against the wooden floor as he pushed it in, and then departed.

I weighed the mug of butterbeer in my hand and took a swig; the sweet yet bitter liquid washed down my throat, and an odd, hollow ache in my stomach tingled. I realized, with a sense of delight, that for the first time in ages, I was hungry—genuinely hungry, and that the food on the platter in front of me actually looked enticing.

I couldn't remember the last time that eating made me feel good. It wasn't that I wanted to lose weight—it was just that I struggled to maintain an appetite.

I shoveled the food down gracelessly, withstanding the odd looks that I was receiving from people sitting nearby. I didn't particularly care what they thought of me—I wanted to each as much as I could before I inevitably lost my appetite again.

It was an odd moment for me to have an epiphany, what with the gravy on my chin and mouthful of rice I was chewing, but one doesn't have control over the timing of such things. It wasn't simply the public setting that made me feel safer around Mulciber. It was that I felt more confident in my ability to take care of myself now that I'd stood up to him.

I realized, rather suddenly, that I was beginning to trust myself.

* * *

Old Haunts was a bookstore that was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. It's small, dull door faced the packed streets, and once one stepped inside, they were face to face with a spacious room filled with towering shelves that were crammed with books. When I entered, I headed straight for the back, as I always did. The back was a cozy, warm area set up especially for a reader's comfort. This was a wonderful place to go when I needed to take my mind off of things; there were two armchairs in front of the fireplace, a small coffee table with a self-replenishing tea kettle. I wanted to relax and read a frivolous book before heading back up to the castle. I needed this opportunity to clear my head.

I'd left the Hog's Head an hour earlier. On my way out, I'd made a point of waving to Potter before exiting. I felt silly in retrospect, but I'd wanted to prove to myself that I had nothing to be ashamed of, and, to a lesser degree, gauge if Potter would acknowledge me in public. And of course he had. He'd grinned broadly and beckoned for me to join him and his friends, but I'd shaken my head, offered him an apologetic smile, and left for this bookstore.

At present, I was curled up in an armchair in the back reading a book that analyzed the elements of truth that muggles often stumbled upon while writing their fantasy novels. It was rather interesting. Muggles were odd folk, and from what I'd read about them, they seemed endearingly stupid despite their society being incredibly backwards.

"That's a good book."

I flinched in surprise, and looked up.

"Lily Evans," I said, more to myself than to the girl standing next to me. She was breathing rather heavily, and had a tall stack of books in her hand that was rebelliously tilting to the right and threatening to tip over, but she didn't seem fazed. I hadn't spoken to Lily in months, but we'd taken care to smile at each other in the corridors and occasionally wave to one another—that sort of thing. If I had to define our relationship, I suppose I would've called it a...casual acquaintanceship?

She beamed and tossed her hair over her shoulder as if she were in a advertisement for some sort of hair product. "The one and only," she said, and placed the stack of books she was holding on one of the armrests, where it teetered precariously and, in a final act of rebellion, toppled over. Lily tutted disapprovingly and waved her wand at the fallen pile, and the books rearranged themselves into a neat stack once more.

I adjusted my skirt and sat up properly. "Er, hello," I said, unsure as to what she was doing here.

She ignored my halfhearted greeting and took me by the hand and dragged me to my feet.

"Come with me," she said brightly, and quite literally flounced down one of the isles between two shelves. I stumbled after her.

"Er, what exactly are you—"

Lily came to a stop rather suddenly. "Oh!" she exclaimed, biting back laughter. "I work here. I probably should've explained that. It's a weekend job sort of thing," she said, "I do it mostly because I like it—and because this place was a bloody mess before I started up. Someone had organized all the books by color rather than by subject." She huffed angrily. "Books are sacred, you know?"

"No, I don't," I blurted out before I could stop myself. To my surprise, Lily simply laughed.

"Andrea, right? We met on the Hogwarts Express?"

I nodded, and unbidden, found myself sharing a smile with her. She was too nice to be cross with, even if she had disturbed my reading.

She gestured broadly to the bookshelf in front of us. "We're having a sale on muggle folklore. I thought you might be interested in it since you selected that book to read," she explained quickly.

I stood on tip-toe and glanced at the titles on the shelf. _Grimm Fairytales._ _The Hobbit. Foundation._

"Hm," I said, rocking backwards on my heels. "Thanks," I said, with a look of pleasant surprise on my face.

She seemed pleased as well, but only said, "No problem. It's my job to help customers out."

"Oh," I said, feeling silly. "But thanks anyway, I suppose."

Lily smiled. "You're sweet," she said, laughing lightly, and rested a hand on my shoulder briefly before turning away and returning to the front of the store. I stood rooted to the spot for a moment. _'You're sweet.'_

Well, that had been thoroughly confusing and revealing in equal measure. It was confusing in that someone had just called me...sweet? _What in hell? _Lily Evans, I decided, was nearly as odd as James Potter—and that's what was so revealing about the conversation I'd just had with her—it explained why Potter was hopelessly in love with her. They were clearly both ridiculously kind—to the point where no one else could tolerate their excessive friendliness for extended periods of time without questioning their sanity. And she seemed smart enough that she could probably balance out his...weirdness, to put it politely.

I took a few books off the shelf, considering buying them. I was quite sure I'd find the time to read them—it's not as if I had an incredibly demanding social life—but I also needed to save money for Christmas presents, seeing as it was coming up. I bit my lip and deliberated. A movement outside one of the windows caught my eye.

Oh, shit. The bell on the door rang as it was opened, and I could hear the person that had just entered politely greeting Lily before storming angrily towards the back of the store. Double shit. I turned away at the last moment. Perhaps Black, being as thick as he was, would mistake me for a bookshelf and walk past.

"What the fuck was that?" he growled, grabbing my shoulder and forcing me to turn around.

Right, that hadn't worked. I suppose I hadn't thought out my _'pretend to be a bookshelf_' plan out properly. I really, really didn't want to speak with him right now, and I couldn't fathom why he'd chosen to corner me in my favorite bookshop, of all places. I couldn't even hear his name without a sickening sense of humiliation coiling in the pit of my stomach.

"Aren't you going to explain?" Black demanded angrily.

I looked up at Black, arranging my features into a look of derisive confusion. "Huh?"

"Did you or did you not just go out on a date with the guy that tried to turn my little brother into a rapist?" he hissed.

I struggled to avoid groaning audibly. "I'm losing track," I said, with a saccharine smile. He drew back momentarily, his anger on hold.

Now it was his turn to be confused. "Huh?" he asked, bewildered. "Losing track of what?"

"Of the number of times you've confronted me about shit that _isn't your fucking business_," I hissed.

My humiliation at his rejection—and, I loathed to admit it, the subtle sense of inferiority that had blossomed from him subsequently shacking up with Mary McDonald—coalesced and solidified into a much more concrete and tolerable emotion: anger.

Black didn't respond, though. He was suddenly avoiding looking at me, as if his desire for confrontation had rescinded—but it was too late now. I _wanted_ to argue.

"Who do you think you are?" I spat. Even if I had gone on a date with Mulciber—and I resented that he thought I'd stoop low enough to go crawling back to someone like Mul—it wasn't Black's job to give me advice on the matter. He had no right to go around policing my love life.

"Who do I—?" Black gaped. "I'm trying to be helpful—"

"What the hell?" I laughed, my anger mixing with disbelief. "Why would I want your help? You're a _Black,_" I spat. "Are you sure all that incest in your family tree hasn't left you addled?"

I didn't think I'd ever been this angry or humiliated in my life. _How dare he pretend he was helping me? How could he act like he knew what was best for me? _This was the same bloody idiot that had looked down at me with disgust etched into his features when I'd offered myself to him blindly—and now he thought he had my best interests at heart?

Black's was gazing at me slack-jawed with shock, but I couldn't help but continue.

"You think—you think you're so bloody good looking and important—you think you can tell everyone what to do—"

"Yeah? I think I'm good looking? Look at you," he scoffed, having collected himself. He sounded angrier than I'd ever heard him before. "You're all dolled up," he spat mockingly. "And Merlin—you're so fucking thin—do you even eat?"

My cheeks flushed. It figured that the one thing he said that would actually get to me would be something this foolish: a backhanded comment on my appearance. But I felt genuinely embarrassed—I'd wanted to feel pretty, but he made me feel as if my efforts had produced a distorted version of what I'd hoped for.

I felt garish, and overdone. I was horrified to find that my eyes were watering. Just like that, he'd taken the fight out of me.

I stood there for one horrible moment, unable to move but unable to respond without betraying my emotions, before I forced my legs to work and tried to walk away, but he caught me by the shoulder as I tried to push past him, and refused to let go even as I tried to shake him off.

"I—_shit. _Just…shit," he fumbled for words.

He seemed surprised by my lack of a response. "Krupp, I honestly didn't mean that. I swear it. You look _nice_," he said, as if his words were supposed to mean anything.

Belatedly, a sense of self-righteousness on my part kicked into action. I didn't dress to impress him. I didn't require male attention to maintain my self-worth…But despite my rationalizations, hit words still cut. And he seemed aware of that—he was tensed, as if bracing himself for another verbal assault, but I didn't have it in me to oblige him. I met his eyes.

"You have such nice friends," I said softly, and it went unspoken that he was the odd one out, that it made no sense, considering that he was the furthest thing from nice.

He saw the mixture of confusion and anger on my face. "Yeah, well, blood always tells, doesn't it? Like you said—I'm a Black."

He seemed a bit disgusted with himself, and I was confused by the way he was backtracking so quickly and calling himself out on his own harshness. This was the reason he'd been sorted into Gryffindor, wasn't it? But I wasn't entirely sure if he was attempting to assuage his own conscience with his self-deprecating words, or, if in true Gryffindor manner, he didn't want me to feel poorly about myself.

Strangely enough, his words seemed to do the trick. On a rational level, I disagreed with the sentiment that "blood always tells," and I'd only said that to be cruel, but even then, I felt the tension in my chest ease a bit, and I was somewhat mollified.

"I do have nice friends, though," he said. There was a beat of silence. Then he said thoughtfully, "Seems that they're your friends too." It was a statement of fact. I didn't quite know what to say to that, but I felt myself flushing with pleasure as I savored the truth of his words. I really did like Potter and Lupin.

"It was good of you to help James, getting him into the party like that," Black said hesitantly, running a hand through his already unruly hair. The tenor of his voice had changed; the anger had disappeared from it, and he was treading cautiously now, as if afraid that I would have some sort of feminine breakdown.

When I only shrugged in response, he continued. "It gave him a change of perspective. I think he might even be moving on… What I'm trying to say is that you helped out my best mate and I've done a poor job of thanking you. So I really was trying to help."

He was eyeing me warily. The shop was growing more crowded and people finished dining out and came to purchase school supplies, but Sirius took no notice of the growing throng of students making their way to the back of the store towards us.

"And Remus guilt trips me about being an ass too," he added, as if that were relevant, and offered up a slight smile.

I was genuinely confused as to what he was rambling on about. I was shallow enough—and definitely self-conscious enough—that all I really wanted to do at the moment was run back up to the castle and change into something drab and forgettable now that he'd mocked my appearance, so I wasn't exactly listening properly.

He was frowning at me. "Are you going to say _anything? _The only way I can get you to talk is when we argue," he joked.

I bit my lip. "I honestly have no idea what you're trying to tell me right now."

He cleared his throat. "Just that, seeing as we have mutual friends, I think we should try and get along for their sake?"

I blinked, surprised by his blunt words. Did he not realize that he was the one that had started literally every argument we'd had these past few months? He was always the instigator, but he was trying to lay the burden of "getting along" on both of our shoulders.

He seemed to realize this as well, because he grimaced and said, "Well, I suppose I should've said that _I_ would try and get along."

I was still staring at him incredulously.

"Does your girlfriend know you're here right now?" My voice was flat, and sounded eerily hollow even to my own ears.

Volumes passed unspoken in the sentence. It was curious how in our conversations, so much went unsaid. It was as if we were thinking on the same plane; we drew the same conclusions from each other's words, but reacted wildly differently.

I was simultaneously dismissing him and drawing his attention back to the night of the Halloween bash, which, as uncomfortable as it was for me to think about it, was more incriminating for him. He'd been the one to kiss me, after all. He'd instigated that. _He_ was the cause of the discord between us.

The boy had no shame, though. His memories of that night seemed to be having the opposite effect. Black's eyes had darkened, and he was looking at me strangely. He might be an arrogant, self-aggrandizing Gryffindor, but his eyes were mesmerizing. One couldn't go to a Hogwarts bathroom without hearing giggling girls discussing boys like Sirius Black in hushed tones. "He's so handsome," they'd say, or "He's so tall." But no - his _brother_ was tall. Sirius was _too_ tall, _too_ imposing.

My breath hitched in my chest as I struggled to return his heavy gaze without looking away.

I was vaguely aware that we made an odd sight: classically handsome boy corners unconventional looking half-German, half-Asian girl in a wizarding bookshop. Perhaps Black was just that stereotypically horny that he'd go for anyone?

He'd taken a half-step forward, and raised his hand to grip the shelf by my head, but the sharp _ding!_ of the register near the front of the store snapped him out of it. He thought better of his actions, his eyes widening slightly at his momentary lapse of judgment.

I watched, my throat dry, as he ran his hand through his hair again, and stepped back just as quickly. This time, I stopped him from leaving rather than the other way around.

It was childish, but I was irritated that he could leave me shaken just by looking at me differently. I wanted to exercise that same modicum of power over him; I wanted to reestablish the boundaries of our acquaintanceship.

"Black," I called after him. He'd already turned his heel, his gaze shuttered as if in disbelief of his own actions.

Yes," I blurted. "Yes, let's try and…get along."

He reacted as I'd hoped. I'd succeeded in catching him off guard. He gaped for a good half-minute but managed masked his surprise with a grin. "Brilliant," he beamed. "And just…let's…put the past behind us, shall we?"

_Oh, that was clever._

"What do you mean?" I said evenly, looking at him with feigned confusion. He meant to put me in a position where it would be awkward—even rude—to deny his request. He wanted to pretend he hadn't been an inconsiderate arsehole to me, or cheated on his girlfriend. But if he thought he could manipulate conversations with me to his advantage, he was wrong. I was a Slytherin, after all.

Black, to his credit, wasn't buying my confused act. "Oh? Would you rather not put the past behind us, then?" he said aggressively, a sardonic smile on his face. "We could pick it up where we left off," he suggested, lowering his voice.

I bit back a laugh. So that was his game? He was trying to shock me by reciprocating my gesture and catching me off guard instead. He could push as hard as he liked—I had nothing to lose. He was the one whose reputation was in jeopardy.

I shook my head and tucked a rogue strand of black hair behind my ear, the picture of innocence. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm really not quite sure what you mean."

His smile broadened into a grin, and he nonchalantly shrugged off my words. "Of course you don't," he said curtly, and turned to leave. I watched his retreating frame exit the store, contemplating the situation at hand.

There would be no verbal—or for that matter, physical—parleying with me, I decided. Oh no—if Sirius Black thought he could juggle a girlfriend and perhaps a girl or two on the side, he was sorely mistaken. If he wanted to play that sort of game against a Slytherin…

I would _win._

* * *

**A/N:** Hi, boxcat speaking! Reviews are like air. Without them, writers die.

Hint hint.


	10. December 7th

**Disclaimer: **Characters, settings, etc. property of JK Rowling. And one quote paraphrased from Emiliano Zapata.

**A/N:** This chapter took a while longer than usual mostly because I've finally figured out exactly what's going to happen in this fic (I had a vague idea before, but now I've written it out with a timeline and all) and this ended up being an intermediary chapter that took place before all the juicy/fun/dramatic stuff. So then I ended up skipping around and writing a lot of the fun stuff when I should've been writing this. Sorry.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :D

* * *

**December 7****th****  
Ten.**

It was a contemplative day.

The sort of day where the sun forgets to rise and the sky goes unpainted. A uniform sheet of white kissed the horizon, and one could easily be struck by the feeling that there was nothing out there save for the emptiness and frigid air stretching on infinitely. The Forbidden Forest rose like a bulwark against the tide of nothingness that threatened to overwhelm us, refusing to be swallowed by the heavy mist that had descended upon Hogwarts.

I had never thought kindly of the prospect of mounting a broomstick. At best, I was distrustful of flying on a haphazardly charmed janitorial tool, and at worst, I suffered from a severe case of vertigo. But on days like these, I wished I could fly. I could envision the scene in my mind's eye: I'd rise above the castle's spirals and be lost in the icy oblivion overhead—

"It's cloudy," James Potter remarked, scrunching up his face and he looked upwards. The fog was condensing on his glasses, further handicapping his imperfect vision.

I sighed. "My inner monologue is waxing poetic. Be quiet."

Potter glanced at me, his expression torn between amusement and confusion. I glared at him until he arranged his features into a sorrowful pout.

"I'm sorry," he said ruefully.

"I'll forgive you this time, but see that you don't do it again."

He shot me a crooked grin, then, continued searching the ground.

"Why can't you ask your friends to help?" I asked as I joined him.

"I can't exactly tell them that I lost it," he said sheepishly.

"Why's that?"

"Er, because they'll have my head for it," he said meekly. "It's a very important essay. Besides, you're my friend. And I asked you."

"Potter?"

"Hm?"

"Don't you have any other friends?"

"Well—that's—that's just _rude_, Andrea," he spluttered.

I shrugged.

"I had a _phase_, you know?" he said at length.

"A…a phase? Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you asked!"

"You having a phase has nothing to do with why you couldn't ask anyone else to come help you," I pointed out.

Potter frowned. "Let me _finish. _During said phase I may have alienated a sizable portion of the student body."

We walked in silence for a bit, scouring the wet grass for Potter's missing Transfiguration homework, but internally, I was processing what Potter had just revealed. It actually made sense, and explained quite a lot.

"You know, it's just strange how you and your friends walk such a fine line between heterosexuality and flamboyance," I commented thoughtfully.

I looked up. Potter appeared to be awe-struck; he was staring at me in slack-jawed amazement.

"What?" I said defensively. "It's true—you're always tackling each other in public and having group hugs. And you and Black are always so well groomed—"

"I don't think we're talking about the same sort of _phase_," Potter cut in frantically, raking a hand through his hair so it reached new, gravity-defying heights.

I arched an eyebrow. "What sort of phase are _you_ talking about?"

"The one I had last year where I was an arrogant arse and went around hexing everyone."

"Oh…Aren't you still kind of an arrogant arse?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "but the important part is that I don't hex people indiscriminately anymore."

"Aha. That's a sure sign that you've matured." He positively beamed at this. "So what are the criteria that someone has to meet before you deem them hex-worthy?"

He shook his head. "It's very complicated, Drea darling. You couldn't understand."

"Call me 'Drea darling' again and you'll have met _my_ rather uncomplicated criterion to be hexed."

"As you wish, Drea dar—"

"_Levicorpus!_"

"This is _so_ unnecessary!" Potter yelled furiously as he was suspended upside-down in the air. He fumbled desperately for his wand in the pocket of his robes. His glasses were mutinously hanging off his face, and the contents of his pockets—some parchment and a spare quill, from what I could see—were about the tumble out. I felt a slight twinge of remorse. I flicked my wand again and he tumbled to the ground.

Rarely did I act on impulse, and I felt my cheeks flush slightly with embarrassment. Perhaps I'd been spending too much time around Potter.

"Maybe I'm having a phase," I said quickly.

Potter had righted himself and was indignantly plucking blades of wet grass off his robes, but paused at my pronouncement. The angry look slipped off his face, and a moment later, the two of us were laughing at the absurdity of what had just occurred.

"Potter," I said when I'd regained my breath, "you're popular. You have plenty of friends."

"That's true," he said cheerily, without a trace of modesty, and then: "We really ought to get on with finding my, um, essay. It's due today," he finished hurriedly.

I sighed. "Do you have any specifics as to where your um-essay might be?"

He adjusted his glasses and glanced around. We were standing in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds, a mile or so from the Quidditch pitch (which we couldn't see from here, as it was behind the castle), and a quarter-mile or so from the gamekeeper's hut that bordered the Forbidden Forest. It was a chilly Monday morning, and Potter had accosted me just as I'd been entering the Great Hall and enlisted my assistance in this—in his words—"highly important endeavor."

I'd agreed, because Potter was _Potter_, and that was an explanation in and of itself. It was a testament to Lily Evans's will-power (and good sense) that she'd managed to stave him off so long, what with his beseeching brown eyes and the general aura of harmlessness that he carried with him. Being around Potter elicited mothering instinct from a place within me that I hadn't known existed. He was so damned clueless that I sometimes found myself worrying about him.

"I was writing it by the lake," he said, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought, "then I suppose I wandered over…yonder," he said vaguely, gesturing towards the forest.

I groaned. "Fucking hell, Potter. Do you expect me to go traipsing through the forest to find your homework?"

He gave me an odd look. "I don't expect you to go traipsing anywhere. I don't think Slytherins are allowed to traipse," he added gravely. "Don't roll your eyes! It's in the student Code of Conduct—_stop laughing_—just look it up!"

"Right," I said, drawing out the syllable, but my cheeks were flushed with laughter, and after a moment, Potter reluctantly joined in, as if confused as to what the joke was.

"Have you tried _Accio_ing it?" I asked, when we'd sobered up.

"Well yeah, but my Summoning charms are lackluster—I've got to be within a certain radius of it—"

"Just try again," I insisted, cutting him off. We were going to miss breakfast at this rate.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, searching for his wand, and a queer expression overtook his face. He withdrew his hands with a sheet of parchment clutched in one.

"Andrea," he said slowly, "you're going to think this is the _funniest_ thing."

"Oh my god."

"No, it's not what you—"

"Oh my god, you _idiot_—"

"Andrea," he practically whined.

"Shut up," I snapped, but there was an unmistakable note of amusement in my voice. "I have a monopoly on whining in this situation. I can't believe you wasted my morning," I said, and snatched the parchment out of his hands, determined to see what sort of an essay merited this amount of trouble. Potter reached for it, but I drew it back quickly and turned it over in my hands.

"This is blank…"

Potter snatched it back, a strange smile on his face. It was odd to see the expression on him; it was almost transformative. Potter had suddenly gone from looking like a petulant child to a sardonic teenager—it was bloody disconcerting.

"Right you are," he said. "It's bewitched. In case Pa—that is, Sirius, tries to copy my work. He's a lazy arse, and I don't intend to carry his marks." He stuffed the piece of parchment back into the pocket of his robes and, before I could question him, linked his arm through mine. The knowing smile on his face had disappeared, and his usual cheeky grin had resurfaced. He set out walking back towards the castle, practically dragging me alongside him.

"C'mon then!" he said, hastening his pace further. "Don't want to miss breakfast, do we?"

"Potter—what the hell?" I huffed, as he released me when we'd arrived at the doors. "You owe me two favors now," I said.

"Isn't he doing you a big enough favor by being your friend?"

Potter and I turned towards the voice.

"Eugene," Potter said coolly.

And at the same time, I said: "Avery."

We were both right—Eugene Avery was lounging against the castle wall with a lit cigarette held loosely between two fingers. He was a tall, lithe boy—the Keeper of the Slytherin Quidditch team—with curly brown hair, bright eyes, and freckles. He painted a deceivingly boyish figure for someone that was toying with their wand.

Avery, unlike most Slytherins, went for the subtle approach. When I'd been with Mul, he'd always been skulking around. I hated the way he looked at me with his leering gaze that made me feel inexplicably unclean. He'd never harassed me outright, because then Mulciber (not out of affection for me, but rather in a chest-thumping, masculine ritual) would have called him out for it. Instead, he'd gone out of his way to make me feel uncomfortable with his presence and his provocative comments.

"Shagging Potter already, yeah?" Avery said by way of greeting. "And you only just ended things with my best mate."

I felt my face flush. I wasn't particularly concerned with what he thought of me, but I was painfully aware of the way Potter had flinched when Avery spoke. It wasn't that I wanted to be shagging Potter—I just felt embarrassed that the very notion of such an occurrence disturbed him so.

"W-we're not—" I stammered halfheartedly, my gaze wavering back and forth from Avery to Potter.

The absolute last thing I needed was for Avery to reveal how out of touch I was with my House mates, or tell Potter about the nature of my Mulciber. He'd have been daft to not know that Mul and I obviously had some sort of history, but I didn't think I could stand it if Avery revealed how passive and submissive I'd been in the past.

"Rubbish," Avery smirked. "Everyone knows you're a tart. Mul told me how you would always beg for his—"

"That's enough," Potter said softly, but with a threatening edge.

My heart thudded loudly in my chest. "No, it's fine—it's fine," I whispered to Potter. "I'll deal with him."

Avery overheard my whispered words and his smirk grew even wider. He'd dropped the cigarette and was twirling his wand in his hand nonchalantly.

"Oh good," he said. "I love being dealt with." He took a step closer so we were eye to eye, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Potter reach into his robes for his wand. "We all know how you deal with boys Drea. I've heard so much about it. I can scarcely believe it's finally my turn to—"

I drew back my fist and punched him square in the jaw and _oh bloody Merlin that fucking hurt. _Avery staggered back a few feet, his wand clattering to the ground as his fingers reflexively unclenched around it. In those split-seconds of confusion, Potter had whipped out his wand and had it pointed directly at Avery.

"Run along, Eugene," he said calmly. "You're outnumbered, and we don't fight fair."

Avery had recovered his balance, and was sneering disdainfully at the two of us. I half expected him to spout some pseudo-dramatic bullshit (_You'll rue this day_), but instead, he leveled Potter with a glare and skulked off through the door without a second glance.

I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding as his form retreated through the door.

Potter turned to me a moment later. "What was _that?_"

"That was—er—that was my _feminism _acting up," I bit out. Now that my shock over what I'd done was starting to wear off, I was beginning to feel inordinately proud of myself—giddy, almost.

I looked up. Potter was staring at me.

"What?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Care to elaborate?"

"_You_ are fucking awesome. _That_," he gestured dramatically to the door through which Avery had walked off, "was fucking awesome."

I grinned shakily. "I _know._" Truth be told, I knew there would be consequences for what I'd done. But it was best not to think about that. I'd deal with it later.

Potter grinned back and extended an arm. "After you, m'lady."

I rolled my eyes and passed through the door, heading straight for the Slytherin table in an attempt to shake him off. Potter followed me expectantly, and I scarcely managed to avoid groaning. _Was he trying to get himself killed?_ I veered my course at the last moment (when it became apparent that Potter wasn't going to leave), and sat down at the end of the Hufflepuff table, earning myself glares from a gaggle of first years.

Potter sat down by me and reached for a plate. His glasses were slightly askew, and (as usual) his hair stood on end. The group of first year girls seemed to be placated now, and had stopped glaring at me long enough to gape at Potter and giggle.

We ate in silence until someone sat themselves down next to Potter—Peter Pettigrew.

"Er, hullo," I ventured.

He ignored me. "What are we doing over here?" he asked Potter, filling a plate with buttered toast.

"_We_ are engaging in some inter-House bonding. What are you doing over here?" Potter replied.

Pettigrew frowned. "Not quite sure. Pass me the salt?"

This was followed by a battle between the salt and pepper shakers brought to the Hufflepuff table by Potter and Pettigrew, and when they'd exhausted themselves with that, the conversation (as conversations between boys inevitably did) turned to Quidditch.

"Andrea, you're going to the match later today, of course?" Potter asked, in a thinly veiled attempt to get me involved in the conversation. Hell, he was too friendly for his own good.

"Of course," I ceded, taking a small sip of my pumpkin juice.

"Wait—really? I didn't take you for the Quidditch sort," Pettigrew said, momentarily startled out of the silent treatment he was affording me. "James is Captain for Gryffindor, you know."

"He may have mentioned that a few hundred times or so during the short span of our friendship. But yes, I'm going. It's the first match of the season," I said. "Someone invited me to go with them."

Potter beamed. "Slag," he said good-naturedly.

"I just punched someone for insinuating that," I pointed out, my eyebrows raised.

Pettigrew leveled me with an appraising look. Potter took no notice, but instead slung an arm over my shoulders. "So who's the lucky bloke? Do I know him?"

"For Merlin's sake, Potter," I shrugged his arm off. "And yes, probably. Edric Lukin. But it's not like that. He's my brother's best mate and he promised to take me to the first match before term even started, and he reminded me about it a few days ago. I hardly know him."

"Edric Lukin?" he gaped (appreciatively). "You _slag._"

I rolled my eyes and stabbed at the runny eggs on my place. "This is exactly what I meant when I commented on your being incredibly flamboyant."

Pettigrew choked on a mouthful of bacon and flashed me a thumbs up. _Okay then._

Potter frowned. "Is flamboyant a euphemism for something? Anyway, Edric Lukin is fit. And in the year above us. If I were you _I'd _get in on that—"

He broke off. I'd gathered my plate and utensils and was heading over to the Slytherin table. I could only stomach a limited amount of Potter's inane prattling on a daily basis, and he'd more than met his quota for the entire week all in one morning. It wasn't, however, lost on me that we'd spent over an hour together and he hadn't mentioned Lily Evans even once. Perhaps Black had been right when he deduced that Potter was getting over her.

In any case, I couldn't get what he'd said about Edric out of my head. I hadn't been nervous about going down to the match with him before, but now I was beginning to feel anxious. I still had my first classes—Transfiguration and Care of Magical Creatures—then lunch, and then the match, so I decided I'd put the thought from my mind until later.

I finished my breakfast quickly and loitered around, waiting for the post. It was delivered soon after by an owl I didn't recognize, and I checked for a letter from Padfoot—but of course there was none, seeing as he'd promised not to write until I contacted him first. He and I had very rarely corresponded through the usual post anyhow, and generally send owls off to each other at odd hours. I hadn't figured out how to adequately thank him for his last letter, so I likely wouldn't be receiving mail from him anytime soon.

I did, however, have a subscription for the Daily Prophet, which I grudgingly opened and scanned quickly. As usual, nothing of interest was going on in the wizarding world. Despite the foreboding speech Dumbledore had given during the feast weeks ago, the tense atmosphere that had momentarily gripped much of magical Britain over the summer was beginning to disappear. According to the Prophet, there were some discrepancies in the budget proposed by the Ministry's Fiscal Committee, and there was some conjecture among leading potioneers that the increase in illegal herb deals was due to a new, streamlined purification process for dittany. Other than that, the world was much the same as it was yesterday.

Sighing, I tossed the paper onto the table and rose. I needed to return to my dormitory and get my Transfiguration notes in order. My nervous anticipation for the Quidditch match in the afternoon was beginning to get to me. It was going to be a long morning.

* * *

Transfiguration passed by quick enough, though I did get snapped at by Professor McGonagall for nearly falling asleep at my desk. The lesson had been focused on theory, and had been horrifically boring. The 6th year Slytherins had the class with Hufflepuffs, and the latter were too busy placing bets as to the outcome of the match to pay attention to the lesson. All in all, it had been an uncharacteristically mediocre class. Usually, McGonagall went to great lengths to emphasize the importance of her subject, but today her teaching was lackluster. She seemed distracted, and I wondered if perhaps she had some money riding on the outcome of the match as well.

When class was dismissed, I hurried down the flights of stairs to the Great Hall, then departed through the main doors. I was half hoping that I would could walk down to the Gamekeeper's hut with Lupin, but he didn't show, so I made the trek on my own. It seemed even colder outside than it was this morning, so I cast a warming charm on myself (to little effect).

There was a crowd of students already gathered outside of the hut when I arrived, and Professor Kettleburn, a petite, aged man with a beard that could rival Dumbledore's, and a penchant for pretending he was outdoorsy (he was far too tiny to have survived half the experiences he recounted boastfully to our class), was standing atop a large rock and dictating to the class.

"Miss Krupp," he squeaked disapprovingly as I attempted to discreetly join the students. "You are two minutes and thirty-two seconds late. See that it doesn't happen again."

"Yes, sir," I said as meekly as I could. Kettleburn continued prattling on about pixies and their natural habitats (_"They prefer forests that have been touched by magic; and therein they make their homes, nestled betwixt the hallowed wood of yore."_), and the students around us hurriedly scribbled down his speech. I glanced around searching for Lupin, but he wasn't present.

"Miss Krupp! Pay attention!" Kettleburn said shrilly.

I straightened up and pretended to be taking notes, but Kettleburn only sighed in response.

"Put that away. It's no use to you now," he lamented, shaking his head sorrowfully._ Melodramatic prat_, I cursed mentally. He turned to address the class. "Now," he said, clapping his hands excitedly, and nearly toppling off his perch on the rock, "you'll be partnering up as usual and exploring the pixie habitats in the forest. You all did wonderfully during the last class and didn't venture too far off, so I trust that you'll take care today as well."

The sparse crowd of students that had opted to take his class stood around, staring at him in disbelief. _Surely, sending us into the Forbidden Forest once was enough?_ Two times in a row was bordering on ridiculous. _Was he trying to have us killed off?_

Kettleburn frowned. "Well? Of you go!" He waved his short arms, dismissing the lot of us. My classmates quickly partnered off and headed to the forest in twos and threes. I approached Kettleburn cautiously.

"Er, Professor?" He glared at me disdainfully.

"Yes, Miss Krupp?"

"My partner isn't here, so can I maybe just stay—"

"You'll work with Miss Abbot and Miss Barger," he snapped.

I heroically resisted the urge to hex him then and there, and instead gritted my teeth and nodded stiffly. Clarence Abbot was a meek mannered Hufflepuff that lived in the shadow of her brother, Corrick Abbot, who was famous for never turning down a dare. He was quite possibly the stupidest boy to have ever graced the halls of Hogwarts. Alice Barger was a Gryffindor that I didn't really know, but I'd seen her around with Lily Evans and company.

I approached them as they headed for the forest. "Professor Kettleburn says I'm to work with you," I said, biting my lip.

Clarence smiled enthusiastically. "Oh! That's lovely!" she exclaimed. I shot her a wan smile. Alice Barger, a willowy brunette, cast me a disparaging look—but that was to be expected, considering she was a Gryffindor. Kettleburn truly hadn't thought his impromptu group assignment through.

"Thanks," I said to Clarence.

The weather was much the same as it had been earlier, and so the "hallowed wood of yore" that Kettleburn had spoken of looked less enticing than usual. The towering trees were as densely packed as ever, and the strange hooting of unseen animals carried beneath the canopy. The mist and fog that condensed by the ground clouded our view; it would be terrifying easy to get lost in the Forbidden Forest on a day like this.

We entered the forest, with Clarence plowing straight ahead as Alice and I lingered back. Our desire to, you know, _stay alive_, went beyond our inter-House rivalry, and we exchanged glances briefly. I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

"Listen, Clarence," Alice called out, as her friend hurried forward into the forest.

Clarence turned around with an expectant look. "Yes?" she sang. (I kid you not. She _sang._)

"Maybe it'd be best if we sat this one out?" Alice ventured. I nodded enthusiastically. "We could just stay where we are now. Out of view of the Gamekeeper's hut but only a bit into the forest?"

Clarence stood fixed to the spot, a look of extreme confusion on her face. "But...the assignment. How will we do it?"

Alice bit her lip, presumably looking for a way to put it delicately. "Well, we can, er—"

"We won't," I cut in. Clarence stared at me in shock. "We won't do the assignment."

Clarence blinked a few times, and for one beautiful moment, I thought she would see reason, and then—

"No," she said, shaking her head. "_I'm_ doing the assignment." She marched off, disappearing quickly into the dense undergrowth. Alice and I exchanged another frantic glance.

"She'd going to get herself killed," Alice whispered angrily.

I thought about it for a moment, calculating the odds. "Probably," I conceded.

"Well?" Alice demanded, shaking her dark hair out of her face. I eyed her warily. She was a Gryffindor—wasn't she supposed to be the one to go and rescue Clarence? My job was just to sit here and cackle evilly, or whatever it was that villains did. I sighed.

"Wands out?" I asked. Alice nodded. We drew them from the folds of out robes and followed Clarence. It didn't take long. We found her maybe five minutes later, excitedly scribbling notes into her book as she examined the bough of a tree.

"Look! I've found it! It's a pixie hearth!" she squealed.

I leaned in closer, examining it. "That's a bird's nest," I said grimly.

Clarence frowned. "Oh."

Alice shot me an nasty look, as if I were personally responsible for crushing Clarence's hopes. This was getting ridiculous. I sat down with my back to a tree and decided I'd wait until the two of them were done playing at being adventurers. To my surprise, when Clarence spotted me she beamed and sat down as well.

"Oh, this is such hard work," she said seriously.

"Yeah." I didn't bother pointing out that she'd only been at it for all of ten minutes (and during those ten minutes, had put all of our lives at stake).

"Where do you think Remus is?" Clarence asked.

I looked up. "Dunno. Why do you ask?"

"Well, he's usually your partner, isn't he?" I nodded. "And he's so _nice,_" she continued dreamily. "And so popular too. And _handsome._"

Clarence sighed. I tried not to vomit.

Alice, I noticed, was no longer glaring at me, but was instead frowning steadfastly at Clarence. _Perhaps she fancied Lupin as well? _I couldn't help thinking that even based off what little I knew of her, she was still much better suited to him than Clarence. Alice, however, didn't seem to realize this, because after casting one last angry look at Clarence, she hurried off into the forest on her own. Merlin, I'd forgotten how passive-aggressive girls were about these sorts of things.

Clarence stared after her, looking characteristically confused. "Where do you think she's off to?"

I shrugged. _Was she really too dense to figure it out?_

"Well I do hope she's—"

A shriek rent the air, and I lurched to my feet. _Fuck fuck fuck. _I pushed blindly through the undergrowth with my wand out, following in Alice's footsteps. I nearly collided with her. She was standing, sheet-white, and pointing towards the ground. I followed her line of sight and bit back a curse. Some large creature had torn out chunks of bark from the surrounding trees. The gouges were deep, and the claw marks imprinted in the trees were evident. Lying on the ground was the mangled carcass of a rabbit. It couldn't have been more than a day old, because it's fur and flesh were still there, despite the mass of flies and other hungry insects that had gathered around.

The stench was nauseating. "C'mon," I said, grabbing Alice's hand and dragging her away. "Let's get the fuck out of this place." She nodded stiffly, and didn't resist. We passed Clarence, who stood up and brushed her robes off before following after us. I didn't release Alice until we were out of the forest and on the open grounds again.

Alice seemed embarrassed about how she'd acted. "I know it's not—I mean obviously, there are wild animals in the forest—carnivorous ones, obviously. I don't know I just didn't expect to see it and—" she stammered.

Clarence was, of course, confused by Alice's state. I waited until the latter calmed down before I spoke.

"Do you reckon we should tell Professor Kettleburn?"

Alice considered my words for a moment before shaking her head. "No. He'd probably react like I did," she said, smiling weakly.

Other students were beginning to emerge from the forest as well now, and from the glazed over looks on their faces and the fact that none of them had books out, it seemed that they'd taken the route that Alice and I had planned on originally, and simply lingered in the outskirts of the forest. I turned to Alice.

"Right, well, I'm going to head back."

"Right," Alice said hurriedly. "And, er, thanks for, er—"

"Don't mention it," I said, a slight smile on my face.

And to my surprise, she smiled back.

* * *

After the excitement of Care of Magical Creatures, I didn't feel up to eating lunch. Instead, I headed down to my dormitory to get ready for the match.

I hadn't planned on getting dressed up for my not-date with Edric at the match, but somehow I found myself fussing over my appearance. I knew it would be odd if I showed up looking significantly more made up than usual, so my extra attention to my appearance manifested itself by way of changing into a fresh sweater and skirt before I headed back down after lunch to enjoy the match—which was ridiculous, really, because you couldn't even see my outfit beneath my robe.

Seeing as I hadn't set aside any time to get freshened up, when I finally arrived in the Great Hall, it was virtually deserted, except for a few students that were waiting around. I didn't recognize many of the stragglers, save for one—Sirius Black. I contemplated walking past without acknowledging him, but decided that since I was going on a not-date with an attractive 7th year, I might as well pretend to be confident today. In any case, he was standing by the doors, and greeted me first.

"Hullo."

Merlin, he looked nice today. He was wearing his Gryffindor scarf, and his hair and robes weren't unkempt for once. We hadn't spoken one-on-one since our tentative agreement in Hogsmeade to avoid being at one another's throats all the time. Whenever I'd been around Potter of Lupin and he'd showed up, we'd made a point of greeting each other cordially.

"Hi," I said. "Waiting for someone?"

"Yeah," he said, glancing towards the stairs, as if expecting said person to appear. "But it doesn't seem like she'll be coming." I felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for him. "You're going down to the match?" he asked, ruffling his shaggy locks and beginning to walk to the pitch.

It was a painfully redundant question, but in an attempt to reciprocate his civility, I didn't bother to point that out. We fell into step with one another, both of us staring dead ahead.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome!" I said brightly, and then winced internally at the obvious fakeness of my tone. Black turned his head and flashed me a boyish grin, and I found myself grinning back. "Too much?" I asked. The lightness of my voice was real this time.

"A bit," he laughed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head up to look at the sky as we continued walking. "Looks like it might rain," he commented. I nodded. The voices of the student's packed into the pitch's bleachers were growing louder as we drew nearer.

"So…" I ventured. "How are you?"

"Swell, and yourself?"

"Swell," I agreed. We reached the pitch; we were among the last students trickling into the stadium. Gryffindor, presumably, would be rooting for Hufflepuff to roust Slytherin, because then they'd be facing the former in their first match, and the Hufflepuff team was significantly weaker than Slytherins's this year. Edric, would be sitting on the Slytherin side of the stands, considering he was on the Ravenclaw team, and would much prefer Gryffindor be defeated by Slytherin than having to take them on in their first match. Sirius Black would likely be heading the other way.

"Okay, then," I said, and gestured towards the opposing end of the stadium. "See you later?"

"Right-o," he said, then gave me a quick salute and turned his heel. I made my way through the stands to where Edric had told me he'd be sitting. I found him near the top, seated next to the same assortment of people that he'd been with on the Hogwarts Express: my brother, and Marlene McKinnon (who was practically sitting on my brother's lap). Argo Fallon must've been on the other side of the stands, supporting his House.

"Hey!" Edric called when he spotted me. He scooted over and I sat down next to him. He threw an arm out over my shoulders. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show," he laughed. I'd forgotten how tall he was; he had a good eight or so inches on me.

"I got held up," I said, smiling, then twisted in my seat to greet my brother. "Hi," I said. He grunted. I rolled my eyes and turned back around. I wasn't going to let Jon ruin this for me. I was determined to enjoy myself and keep the promise I'd made to myself earlier in the year when I'd been seated with the same group of people: I was going to be at least _somewhat_ social this year. And despite Jon being his usual, arsehole self, just the fact that he was present made me feel much more comfortable than I would have thought possible. In a situation like this, surrounded by unfamiliar people, I usually would have been silent, and overwhelmingly anxious.

Instead, I felt relaxed.

I turned back to Edric. He was disconcertingly close.

"You're friends with the Marauders, yeah?" he asked.

I blinked. I hadn't heard that nickname recently, mostly because the Slytherins generally used much less endearing epithets when referring to Potter, Black, Lupin and Pettigrew collectively. In any case, his question had caught me off guard.

"Most of them," I said, my smile slipping a little. I shifted uncomfortably beneath his arm.

Edric nodded and turned to Marlene. "See? I told you," he said, but Marlene only rolled her eyes.

"Told her what?" I asked, and in an uncharacteristic moment of confidence, cupped his chin and drew his face back towards me. Edric beamed down at me.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

I opened my mouth to speak but was cut off by the blare of the commentator over the speaker.

_"Decent afternoon, esteemed guests and denizens of Hogwarts. I grudgingly welcome you to the first Quidditch match of the year!"_

There was a loud rumble, and it seemed as if the entire student body was craning their necks to see who was commentating on the match. Kenneth Lee, who'd been the humorous and Quidditch mad commentator of the years past, had graduated last year, and the thin, reedy voice of the boy who'd just spoken didn't resemble Kenneth's jovial style in the least.

_"I am Xenophilius Lovegood, and I will be bringing you the commentary on this match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin."  
_

There was a collective groan from the occupants of the stadium that recognized him, but internally I was pleased. I didn't care much for Quidditch, but from what I knew of Xenophilius, the commentary he would provide would be interesting to say the least. The match commenced soon enough, and Edric was soon engrossed in deep conversation with my brother about its technicalities. I briefly considered attempting to start up a conversation with Marlene, but she was eyeing me distastefully.

_"Hufflepuff scores again, bringing the current tally to 140-40. Hopefully someone can catch the snitch and end this farce of a game—only joking, Professor—"_

I burst out laughing. Whoever had chosen Lovegood to narrate the match must've been regretting having done so. Edric tore his attention away from my brother to glance down at me as I shook with laughter.

"You're damn cute, you know?"

_"And that's Lars Mulciber, beater for Slytherin, bit of a nasty brute—and he's just taken a bludger to the nose—I thought he was supposed to be hitting them at other players—"_

"No," I said, biting my lip nervously, "I didn't know." Edric smiled, but he was looking at me differently; he drew nearer—but this was going far too fast—

_"There is, of course, the obvious explanation for their shoddy sportsmanship: the Slytherin team has come down with a case of nargles, which in addition to being a species of creature, is also a little known ailment native to the marshlands of Australia—"_

—and suddenly, he was close enough that I could see the freckles across his nose, and flecks of gold in his eyes. He smelled soap and a faint hint of cinnamon, and he was leaning in—

_"And that's Lola Ames with the Quaffle—she plays chaser for Hufflepuff—her father works in the Auror Department, incidentally. I'm not inclined to condone their practices. They're hopelessly outmatched. Much like the Slytherin team today—"_

I tuned Xenophilius out, and focused on the boy in front of me. I didn't even know Edric. I only knew that he was popular and a 7th year and fit, and that meant I was supposed to like him, because everyone did. And...if Mary McDonald could effortlessly kiss Sirius Black, of all people, then I could kiss Edric Lukin. It made no sense, but even then—

_"...the complete incompetence of the Slytherin defensive line; their keeper, Eugene Avery is completely underperforming—frankly, this is a pathetic showing for a team that was heavily favored to win. One could draw some interesting parallels between the weakness of the Slytherin team and the current administration in charge of the Ministry—"_

As his face drew closer, my eyes fluttered shut, and I leaned in too—

_"—and then, of course, there's the fact that a Dark Lord has risen, and the Ministry and the mainstream media's completely ignoring it—"_

_What in hell? _My eyes flew open and I turned to stare at the commentator's box. I squinted, but I could scarcely make out the figures standing there. Edric Lukin's lips connected with my cheek instead of my lips, and he seemed momentarily affronted by my rejection before he followed my line of sight and enthusiastically watched the unfolding spectacle. Professor McGonagall's enraged voice carried across the stadium.

"Lovegood! Step away from the speaker, so help me—"

_"—and speaking of ignoring things, the Slytherin seeker, Hardback, is resolutely ignoring the fact that the Anna Leon has clearly spotted the snitch—she's in a nose dive—I think she might hit the ground—false alarm! She's pulled out of the dive, but the snitch has escaped!"_

There was a shuffle of noise from the commentator's box before Xenophilius continued.

_"The snitch has escaped!"_ he repeated. _"Much like the fact that we are soon to be at war has escaped your notice—"_

There was a loud crash, followed by an excruciatingly high whine of feedback from the microphone. Over the noise, Professor McGonagall's magically enhanced voice called out, _"Anna Leon has caught the snitch. Hufflepuff wins, 290-40!" _There was scattered applause from the students in the stadium, but most people seemed to be grumbling with discontent, having missed the conclusion of the match because they were too busy trying to see what was happening in the box.

Edric turned to me, bewildered.

"Bit of an odd bloke, Xenophilius?"

I tilted my head to the side, taking in his sandy, windswept hair and the adorably confused look on his face. _To hell with it._

"No kidding," I said, then leaned forward, and kissed him.

* * *

Dinner proved to be a pleasant affair, despite the stormy clouds in the Great Hall. It was only my second meal of the day, and I seated myself next to Regulus, knowing that his unconditional love for food would allow me to eat undisturbed (he was too busy stuffing his face to carry on a conversation). I'd bid Edric farewell after the match, but first he'd extracted a promise from me that I'd attend some party or the other over his manor during the holidays. When I'd pulled back from the spur of the moment kiss I'd given him, he'd seemed even more bewildered than before, but pleasantly so.

I didn't particularly like him_—_mostly because I didn't even know him all that well, but he was attractive, and in the moment it had felt like a nice thing to do. And I couldn't bring myself to regret it. I didn't have time to ponder over the issue at present, because as the dishes began to clear themselves, the Headmaster rose from his seat at the head table, and addressed the hall.

"I understand," he began slowly, "that there was an incident at the Quidditch match earlier today."

Here he paused, and many of the students in the hall tittered. The Slytherin table was noticeably quiet, though, and no one seemed to find the debacle that had occurred to be funny. Perhaps it was because there were Death Eaters already among us. I frowned down at my lap. It hadn't occurred to me before that it might be beneficial to tell someone with authority the identity of the Death Eaters that were Hogwarts students. _But who would I even tell?_

"Yes, it was very amusing," Dumbledore smiled. "I'm sure that those of you who read the Prophet know that nothing of importance is reported in the papers, as Mr. Lovegood claimed. This could be because there _is_ nothing of importance going on." He folded his hands together and swept his gaze across the hall.

"On a completely unrelated note," he said, his smile disappearing, "Hogwarts has received a new edict from the Ministry requiring that we update the current registry of students to include new background information on each individual. You will all be meeting with Mr. Yaxly to provide that information." He reached behind him, and as if from thin air, produced a young, cruel looking man dressed in official Ministry robes. We all applauded obligingly. Mr. Yaxly bowed, then resumed sitting.

The students in the hall began to gather their things to head for their dormitories, but the Headmaster cleared his throat, and we returned out attention to him. "I ask one other thing of you," he said quietly. "And unlike your meeting with Mr. Yaxly here, to discuss your_ lineage_, this will not be mandatory."

He glanced around once more, and took a small step backwards. "Hogwarts has ever been my home_—_and yours. You will always be welcome here. It's halls have never cast out a soul once they were invited in. The magic of this school that was built into it, and the magic that lives and breathes here must always remain. I seek now, one small favor from you."

His voice was hushed, and the entire hall was tuned in, desperate to catch his next words. Never before had Dumbledore spoken in such a vulnerable tone before.

"Earlier this year, I asked that you follow the path you saw best fit. I remind you of that request today, and I hope to ease the burdens of your path. As of the start of the new year, Hogwarts will have a new set of optional classes open to students of all ages: Elementary and Advanced Dueling—so that when you leave these halls to face the very real threats that exist outside this school, you might stand a chance."

Mr. Yaxly had surged to his feet, a look of disfiguring fury overcoming him, and the rolling thunder overhead crescendoed, but even then, no one in the Hall could shake their eyes from the aged wizard standing before them.

"The choice," he said, "is yours. But sometimes it is better for one to struggle_—_and even die_—_on their feet, than to live on their knees."

His words, soft as they were, were torn and pained; they broke upon the gathering storm overhead that had been threatening to shatter since the bleakness of the early morning—and one by one, we looked up in wonderment as the oceanic sky let loose, and rain began to fall.

* * *

**A/N:** Whew! Longest chapter yet. Sorry about that(?) What do you think? If you take a second to review, I'll bake you a cake. (A metaphorical cake made of eternal gratitude.)

Also, this is the first fic that I've ever written (and it's the first time I've ever posted any of my writing in a public venue) and I can't believe I've reached ten chapters! I just wanted to do a quick shout-out to everyone that's favorited, followed, and reviewed this story so far. You guys are honestly the best, and you're the reason that I'm still writing this.


	11. Christmas Break

**Eleven.  
Christmas Holidays**

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock._

I was going to kill that bloody clock. There really weren't many options left, and it was the logical thing to do. First off, I'd never been able to find the button to get it to kindly _shut the hell up _when it decided to ring at ungodly hours_, _and secondly, it was garishly ugly—bright blue with birds etched into it.

And third, I couldn't even appreciate the blessed silence that accompanied being on Christmas break because its goddamned _tick-tock, tick-tock,_ was so loud.

I groaned and accepted the inevitable: I was going to have to get out of bed. I gave the clock one last angry glare after I'd dressed and brushed my teeth, then headed downstairs for breakfast, only to be confronted by a scene that was exponentially more terrifying than the ticking of my clock was irritating.

My family was gathered around the kitchen table eating breakfast _together. _My father, a burly man that was prone to fits of rage and had attended Durmstrang before moving to England, glanced up from his newspaper and gave me a curt nod. Jon sent me a pleading look, as if it were within my power to somehow extricate him from this situation.

"Andrea," my mother said primly without turning around to greet me. "It's nice of you to finally show your face."

_Bollocks._ Had I walked in on some sort of intervention? My family never ate meals together, least of all breakfast.

"Er, yeah," I said, and slid into the seat next to here and poured myself a glass of orange juice.

My mother frowned. "You need to eat something," she said sternly, grabbing my arm and wrapping her hand around it. "You're too skinny. It's not befitting of a lady your age."

"Sure," I said, and put two pancakes on my plate. My petite mother gazed distastefully at my plate then shook her head with a dramatic sigh.

We all ate in silence for a few minutes; I kept glancing at Jon, hoping to get his attention but he was staring resolutely at his plate. Finally, my father set the _Prophet_ down and cleared his throat.

"How's school going?"

I jumped at the opportunity. "It's going really well!" I exclaimed brightly. "Classes are so much more interesting this year. I'm actually really enjoying it and my grades have gone up—"

I broke off. My father seemed pleased, but the creases in my mother's face had deepened further. _I didn't know it was possible to frown that hard. _It was a bit comical, really.

Jon stepped in. "I like it as well, this year. I haven't got the faintest idea what I want to do when I graduate, though," he added, wincing.

Father nodded, adjusting his glasses. "We can always find you a spot at the ministry," he said, then chuckled at the horrified look on Jon's face as he contemplated his future with a desk job. "Or not," he said lightly.

"Ask Andrea how her relationship with the young Mr. Mulciber is going," my mother instructed him.

"I'm right here, Mum," I said, unable to resist rolling my eyes.

She sniffed. "He's from a wonderful family—plenty of connections, and pureblooded too—and would make a fine match for you. Don't you think so, Erik?" she said sharply as she turned to my father.

"Listen to your mother, Andrea," he commented dryly.

I stabbed at my pancakes. "Mum, he's betrothed to someone else."

She looked at me with an expression of absolute horror on her face. Jon was trying and failing to hold back laughter. I shot him a withering look.

"If you didn't mope all the time—if you weren't so sickly thin—maybe he would've stayed with you," my mother spat, then patted her lips daintily with a napkin. My father ran a hand through his hair and sighed but offered no comment.

I bit my lip, struggling to hold back a smile as well now. Growing up in this household had been toxic, what with my father's sudden pivots between benevolence and rage, and my mother's constant barrage of acidic comments regarding my looks, my weight, my personality—but instead of wearing away at me over the years and getting to me, I'd ceased to care.

I'd discovered through experience that you could only reiterate the same insults so many times before they lost their ability to hurt. It wasn't that my mother's sixteen year long psychological war against me had made me stronger—it had simply desensitized me to her.

"Sorry, Mum," I said.

She tossed her hair and wrung her hands, fighting to maintain her ladylike composure. "Don't worry your pretty little head over it, dear. I'll find you someone. There are plenty of eligible boys, and you'll end up with one that you deserve."

Jon coughed. "And on that note, Drea and I were planning on going out today to buy gifts for everyone," he announced loudly. _We were?_ He shot me a meaningful look. I pushed my plate away and stood up.

"We should probably get going," I said, and Jon nodded emphatically. My father stood up and reached into his pocket.

"Here," he said, handing me a few galleons.

"No, it's fine," I said, but he insisted. "Thanks, Dad," I said, surprised. He simply nodded and looked away as if unsure of what to say. My mother was muttering under her breath, so I took that as our cue to leave. I pocketed the money and stepped out with Jon.

The second the door was shut behind us we both burst out laughing.

"Oh god—" I broke off laughing. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," he gasped.

"Merlin," I said, holding my side. "You don't think she's going to try and set me up with some pureblooded git, do you?"

"That," said Jon, "is exactly what she's going to do."

"Merlin," I said again, and we were both consumed by another bout of laughter.

"I can't help but pity the poor bloke already," Jon mused, and I stuck my tongue out at him.

When we recovered, we actually did head to Diagon Alley to buy Christmas gifts for our friends. Jon had significantly more to buy than I did, and ended up borrowing money from me. I, on the other hand, had a fairly short list of people I'd be sending gifts too. I contemplated getting one for Padfoot, but we'd never actually bought Christmas presents for one another before and I hadn't the faintest idea of what to get him. I settled on buying obligatory gifts for my dormmates, Circe Burke and Isla Crabbe. They were the only other two Slytherin girls in my year.

It was easy enough to figure out why Slytherin house didn't have many girls. It was very rare that a muggleborn or even a half-blood was sorted into our house, and most pureblooded families had children for the sole purpose of having an heir. If they had a son as their first child, it was extremely unlikely that they'd bother having a second.

Out of a mutual sense of dislike, my dormmates and I had never really bothered to get to know each other, so I bought them expensive perfume that would've made a decent gift for any girl. I did know that the two were gossipy, pureblood heiresses, so it seemed that the gift would suffice. On a whim, I bought James Potter and Remus Lupin gifts as well. We were passing by the Quidditch shop (where Jon lingered for over two hours), and I bought Potter some high-quality broom polish. I wasn't sure if it made a good gift but Jon, who had much more knowledge about brooms that I did, insisted that it was.

For Lupin I bought a dry, pedantic book on the care of magical creatures as an ironic joke. I knew that he would appreciate its significance considering his dry sense of humor.

Jon and I bought each other a gift as well: when it was approaching the evening, we stopped by Fortescue's, and I paid for his sundae, and he paid for mine.

* * *

We arrived back home just as darkness was falling. Thankfully, our parents were out, likely at some society event or the other. It really was pitiful how my mother tried to hard to move up in the wizarding social hierarchy.

I headed up to my room, exhausted, and took a nap. When I woke up perhaps an hour later, I could head voices from downstairs. Curious, I went down. The voices were coming from the living room. I recognized Jon's, but not the other's. I went to the kitchen and made tea, hoping it was ease the dull throbbing of the headache I'd awoken with, then followed the voices.

Jon was standing with his hands behind his back and his head bowed, and a girl was pacing back and forth in front of him.

"I—Jon...I don't..." she broke off when she saw me in the doorway, and stopped in surprise.

She was a bit shorter than me and on the chubby side, but that did nothing to detract from the fact that she was almost comically beautiful. Her wide blue eyes were framed with dark lashes and her close cropped blonde curls were piled atop her head like a haphazard halo. She was, without the doubt, the very antithesis of Marlene McKinnon, who was tall, leggy, slim and dark haired and eyed.

I backed away from the doorway, intending to leave the two of them be, but the girl shook her head.

"No, don't. I'll only be a minute," she said, then turned to Jon and barreled on: "I asked around about the—the Pratt School for Boys, where you said you went…Jon, no one's ever heard of it." She paused, biting her lip and gazing straight at him, but Jon refused to meet her eyes. "Don't worry," she said quickly, her voice shaking. "Don't worry—I know that we're ov—" she broke off, helplessly wringing her hands, then tried again. "Jon I know that _us_, whatever we were, is done…but I need to know."

Jon's head snapped up and he took an involuntary step forward. "Don't say that, Anna" he said hoarsely and then cleared his throat, embarrassed by the raw emotion in his voice. _Anna. Merlin, this was the muggle girl he'd been seeing over the summer._

She shook her head, her curls bouncing. "I just need to know," she repeated softly.

Jon ran a hand over his face, and for one terrible moment, I was afraid that he was going to cry, but when he lowered his hand there weren't any tears in his eyes. He turned to me.

"…Andrea, you ought to leave."

I nodded blankly and turned to go, but only took a few steps before I turned back and entered the room. I set the mug of hot tea down on the table and left. They seemed to need it more than I did.

I took the stairs two at a time, and in the span of ten seconds that it took to reach my room, the ongoing conversation downstairs escalated into a shouting match. I lay in bed, contemplating leaving simply to avoid overhearing their personal matters. I rolled over, attempting to use the pillow to block out the screaming coming from downstairs.

"_This is for your own good!"_

"_What does that mean, Jon? I gave you everything__—_"

Silence.

"…_God, I'm so sorry. So sorry. I love you."_

"_I…I love you too, Jon, but I need to know. I just need to know the truth."_

_I gave you everything._ I could guess what she meant by that. She'd given to Jon what I'd given to Mulciber. _Everything_, she'd said. I'd never thought of it like that. Was that all a girl was? Virginity? Sex? Was a girl's virtue the greatest treasure she had to offer?

Jon's silence had been more potent than an answer. It hadn't occurred to him to deny it. He hadn't questioned the fact that the girl he loved was standing before him, claiming that the pleasure he derived from her body was all that she was worth, was all that she'd had to offer.

I felt rather sick.

I'd given myself to Mulciber. _Given him everything._

I laid in bed for what felt like hours. Long after I heard the front door open and shut as Anna left, and long after my parents returned and Jon enclosed himself in his bedroom. Sleep wouldn't overtake me, and the unfamiliar ache within me refused to go away. Every time I shut my eyes I was haunted by flashbacks, by memories of Mul lying over me, grunting, of his mouth on mine—

I threw the covers off and left my room, padding down the hall in my sock-covered feet. I eased the door to Jon's room open and slipped in, seating myself in his chair. I could scarcely make him out in the dark.

"Jon?" I whispered. He moaned and rolled over in his bed.

"Who's there?" he raised his head and asked groggily in his sleep.

"It's me. It's your sister," I said softly. "I want to talk.

His head fell back on the pillow and he rolled over so his back was to me. "Go to sleep," he mumbled into his pillow. I sat there, immobile, the sudden mental fatigue that had overtaken me rendering me incapable of speech. I'd had low points before, but never anything like this, this sudden, suffocating feeling of helplessness, of wanting desperately to forget the things I'd done, wanting to be someone entirely new.

"We'll talk in the morning. It's fucking late. Go back to sleep," Jon said, having noticed that I hadn't left.

I sat there a few moments longer before forcing the words out of my mouth once more. "I really want to talk," I whispered hollowly. I didn't even know what I wanted to say; I just wanted to know that there was someone there to listen.

He pulled himself half up and rubbed a hand over his face in the dark. "Drea," he said gently, for once seeming to sense that something that truly wrong. "I promise we'll talk in the morning, alright? You can sleep here if you'd like," he added grudgingly.

I sniffed audibly—pathetically—and rose to my feet. I felt blindly for the door in the dark, and stumbled out of Jon's room, down the stairs, and out the door, pausing only to pull on boots and a sweater hanging over the banister.

The cool night air washed over me, cleansing me of everything I was trying desperately to forget, and forcing me to focus on something far more immediate: the cold. I sagged against the door, a wave of exhaustion overcoming me. I wanted to sit down right there on the doorstep and sleep, but that clearly wasn't a viable option. I pushed myself off the door and pressed my numb fingers to my face.

I began to walk. I wasn't entirely sure where I was heading, but I knew there was another small village about a half-hour's walk to the south, and that there was a small wizarding community there. I didn't want to risk being out and about this late at night in my village, where I might chance upon someone that I knew.

As I walked, I prioritized.

I wanted to be drunk. I knew that much. I also wanted to be warm, and I wanted to be with someone—whether in a sexual sense or simply being held my someone, I didn't care much. I just didn't want to be alone. I wasn't sure why one, insignificant comment from a muggle girl—_I gave you everything_—could affect me so much. But a niggling voice in the back of my mind chastised me, forcing me to accept the truth.

I was constantly putting things off, ignoring reality, and avoiding confrontation. It had been surprisingly easy for me to end a two year long relationship with Mulciber. He'd been the center of my existence, and it had been bizarrely unhealthy. No one could simply walk out of a relationship like that unscathed, but for the past few weeks, it had seemed as if I had. That one phrase had acted as a catalyst and made me confront the truth: I wasn't magically fine now that I'd distanced myself from Mul. I was still fucked up, and I had to deal with that.

But not tonight. Tonight I wanted to forget.

I approached the village, passing a quaint, wooden sign that welcomed me "to the Village of Amesworth!" and headed for the wizarding area. I cursed fluently upon realizing that I hadn't brought my wand with me, and had barely enough money for one drink. _Shit._

It was easy enough to figure out where the wizarding part of town was. There were no muggle wires strung across the streets, and the houses were older and shoddier despite seeming homier and more welcoming. There was one building that was still lit up, with a few people loitering outside. I went up to it and craned my neck to read the sign: _The Amesworth Inn. _

"'Ello, girlie," a voice said, startling me. I jumped. A youth maybe a few years older than me with greasy hair and prominent cheekbones was lounging against the building with a pipe in his mouth. "Fancy a puff?" he grinned, exposing blackened teeth.

"What is that?"

"Homegrown dittany." He winked.

I edged away from him, heading for the door. "Er, no thanks," I said, avoiding eye-contact. I pushed open the inn's door and entered.

It was fairly empty, save for a group of old wizards and witches gathered around the bar. The unsavory looking barman was lounging behind it and conversing with them. I approached the bar.

"I'd like a glass of scotch," I said, attempting to sound authoritative enough for my order to go unquestioned.

The barman laughed. "Aye? And how old are ye?"

"…Twenty?" I said hopefully.

He laughed again. "Lass, just wot are ye doin' here?"

"I was sort of planning on getting drunk, telling a stranger my life story and then sleeping with them," I explained eloquently.

The barman looked at me skeptically.

"And wot's yer life story, then?"

I eyed him warily. His appearance was unkempt to say the least.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," I said slowly.

"Aye, and ye aren't drinkin' in me bar neither," he scoffed, setting down a glass of water in front of me instead of the scotch I'd ordered. "But have at it; let's hear yer life story, lass."

The rest of the people at the bar had quieted and were looking at me expectantly now. I frowned in consternation, my brow furrowed as I tried to think of the especially intriguing aspects of my life. I wasn't quite sure how I'd ended up in a bar, recounting my past to a group of scraggly old men and women that looked like grandfatherly pirates, but I supposed that I might as well try my hand at spinning a decent story. It couldn't be the angst-ridden confession I'd planned on burdening some poor, unsuspecting bloke with, clearly, so I began vaguely.

"I was born and raised near St. Ottery Catchpole," I said. The man with the eye-patch yawned. Apparently this wasn't interesting enough for them. "My mother was a professional troll-fighter—"

This statement was met with laughter. _Alright, I could take a hint._ My story had to be more believable.

I wracked my thoughts for any interesting yet true tidbits about myself. My eyes lit up. "Sometimes," I said, leaning forwards and whispering conspiratorially, "I hand in my Transfiguration essays a day or two late and pretend I've been ill."

More laughter, only this time not the mocking sort. The laughter was genuine, and even the surly barman's eyes twinkled as he guffawed at my expense. I was aware of what a strange sight this was. An (underage), frail, pale-skinned girl sitting at a bar with a group of aged, bearded wizards. It almost sounded creepy when I put it like that, I mused.

The door opened once more, and someone stepped in. I glanced over my shoulder, then did a double take. _It couldn't be…_

In walked Sirius Black, looking nearly as incongruous in this setting as I did. He didn't see me, but instead headed straight for the other end of the bar and called for the barman. A buxom girl, presumably the barman's daughter stepped out from the back room and approached him, smiling beatifically. The two conversed in hushed tones and then the girl stepped back into the room, returning only moments later with a platter of hot food.

Black dug in greedily, not sparing a glance in the girl's direction though she sent many his way before retreating to the store room once more. I looked away, absurdly afraid that he'd catch sight of me.

_What was he doing here?_

"Aye lass, we haven't heard much of a story from ye, have we?" one of the men called loudly.

I blinked. "Oh. Right," I said nervously. Damn it all, I'd actually been enjoying myself. I wasn't going to let Sirius Black's unexpected presence ruin this for me.

"Well," I said, "I suppose I'll restart. I was raised in St. Ottery Catchpole, but I'm not entirely sure where I was born because my parents found me floating in the Thames when I was an infant."

"A wee yongin' like ye woulda drowned," one of the patrons grunted.

I nodded. "Exactly. That's why I was in a basket."

The man thumped his fist against the table. "It just isn't right, leavin' a child somewhere like that," he said mournfully.

I snuck a glance down the bar and flinched; Black was looking straight at me, his spoonful of soup suspended halfway to his mouth as he looked on at me in surprise. I raised a hand in a halfhearted greeting, and he arched an eyebrow in response. I turned away.

"True," I said, addressing the old wizard that had bemoaned my (fictional) predicament as an infant. "Anyway, I've spent the rest of my life on a quest to discover the identities of my true parents."

"Oh!" squeaked an elderly, squat witch so loudly that her hat tumbled off her head. "That's so tragic!"

"Yes," I said somberly, choking back a laugh. "It truly is." I looked at Black again through the corner of my eye. His shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. "I suppose I had better get going," I informed my newfound friends at the bar, having reconciled myself with the fact that despite the bar looking unscrupulous, it still wouldn't serve minors. They all bid me farewell and chorused their good lucks, encouraging me to not give up on my quest. I smiled and excused myself once more, then headed for the door.

It really was late, and I had to get back before first light. It was about a two mile walk and I wasn't looking forward to it. I'd just stepped out when the door opened once more and someone else exited. I wasn't surprised when I turned around and saw who it was—of course it would be him.

Black ambled out, his hands in his pockets, his dark hair falling across his face.

"Hullo."

"Hi."

We gazed at one another awkwardly.

"What're you doing here?" he asked finally.

"Oh, you know. Hanging around," I said vaguely. "And now I suppose I'm going home. You?"

"Hanging around as well," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're walking?" he asked.

"Obviously."

"What I meant is…why? It's late. Just apparate."

_Why did he care?_ "I haven't got my wand."

"Aw. Bollocks. I'd suggest side-long apparition but I'm shit at it and I don't know if it's possible if you don't have a wand on you…and I'd probably splinch you and leave you even more horribly disfigured…" he rambled.

_Even more?_ "Aresehole," I muttered. He shrugged it off.

"Maybe I should walk with you."

A soft rustle nearby caught my attention. I turned to look; a silhouetted figure emerged from the bushes. It was that of a man. He was zipping up his trousers and muttering beneath his breath.

Black followed my gaze. "Right then, I'm coming with you," he said conclusively, apparently having decided that drunken men pissing in bushes posed a threat too great for me to handle.

"No, you are _not._"

Black stared down at me, his jaw clenched. "I'm trying to do the decent thing here. You don't have to make this so damned difficult."

I poked him firmly in the chest, and he stumbled back a step, less from the force behind my touch than from surprise.

"You," I saw slowly, "need saving much more than I do." He looked suspiciously like he was trying to hold back a laugh. I scowled. "Maybe I should follow _you_ around and insist that I'm just doing the decent thing."

"Plenty of girls follow me around already," he said smugly. "Never thought you were the type."

"That's dumb."

"…What?"

"That's dumb," I repeated, growing frustrated, "that you don't think I'm the type." Black looked at me blankly. _To hell with it._ "We kissed, remember? And I threw myself at you?"

He said nothing.

I spoke up simply to fill the silence. "It's really cold out," I huffed.

"You think too much," he said at the same time.

I blinked up at him. "What does that even mean?"

"See! Just accept what people say for once without questioning them. You're thinking too much. It means exactly what it means."

"Go _away_," I told him crossly, not wanting to deal with his nonsense at present.

Black had the audacity to grin. "Fine," he said, putting his hands up in surrender as he backed away. "I'll see you later, then." He turned and walked off.

I frowned. _What a prat._

Secretly, though, I felt inordinately pleased with myself for having successfully chased him off. I didn't mind walking alone, honestly, and it was a matter of principle too. I didn't need anyone to save me.

It really was bloody freezing out, and I'd only taken a few steps before I had to pause and run my hands together for warmth. I glanced around, attempting to discern which route to take. The village of Amesworth unfolded like a mess; the streets didn't run parallel to one another, but rather were cobbled paths that had used to be horse trails that cut through the country side. The village was heavily populated now, despite the roads being deserted at this late hour.

The meandering streets twisted into one another. I couldn't make out the signs in the dark. Scowling fiercely, I swiveled around, searching for something that would set me off in the right direction.

In the darkness, I could see a faint glimmer. Intrigued, yet uneasily aware that I was wandless, I stepped forward cautiously.

_Fucking hell_—that looked like…teeth?

I stumbled backwards, groping for something solid behind me to support myself on. The barking roar of a beast issued from the bushes where I'd been moments before, and a large, black canine leapt from them, its teeth flashing wickedly in the moonlight—

But instead of attacking me, it disappeared into the darkness behind me. I stood rooted to the spot for several minutes, unable to move. When I finally snapped out of it and regained the use of my limbs, I turned and ran in blind terror back to the inn, threw the door open and shut it firmly behind me, trembling in fear.

Black was still there, and I was inexplicably relieved to see him. He glanced up as the door opened and smirked.

"Back already? I thought you were fine on your—" the smug look slipped off his face as he caught sight of me. "Shit," he muttered, lurching to his feet.

I was shaking violently, and could feel tears pricking at my eyes. Black took two large steps and was at my side. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and guided me to the bar where he'd just been and made me sit. I was too shaken to protest.

"There was some kind of beast out there—it looked like—like the _Grim_—" I said helplessly.

"It's fine," Black said gruffly. "It's fine. You're fine. Don't worry."

"I'm so stu—" I began, but he cut me off.

"No—just—here, take this," he said, pressing a glass of cool water into my hands. I took it gratefully and gulped it down. "Just relax," Black kept saying soothingly. "Relax."

I sniffed, vaguely aware that my total lack of composure was more than a little embarrassing—but nobody _actually_ expects to find monsters in the dark—especially not ones that are universally recognized as omens of _death._

"You believe me, then?" I asked when I'd regained my breath. Black eyed the floor.

"Yeah. Sure," he said quickly.

I watched him for a moment. _He's hiding something._

"You've seen it, too!" I exclaimed, realization dawning on me.

"I guess," he said, clearing his throat, then he stepped away to go and fetch a glass of water for himself. He returned moments later and sat down next to me.

"Well?" I prompted.

"Well what?" he hedged.

I scowled. "Don't play dumb. What do you mean you guess you've seen it?

He sighed. "I've been staying at the inn a couple days. It's probably someone's idea of a joke. A poorly thought out prank, or something. I doubt—really, highly doubt—that they expected you to react like…that. They probably wouldn't have done it if they'd known that you'd—you know."

He graciously spared me a description of my hysterical state, but I still felt my face grow hot with embarrassment.

"Do you think you could walk with me?" I asked him, avoiding his gaze. There was no way in hell I was going back out there alone. I expected Black to laugh or say '_I told you so'_, but to my surprise, he did neither.

"Fine. Whatever," he said, and when I'd drunk my entire glass of water under his watchful gaze (Who did he think he was? My mother?), he ushered me out of the inn once more, following closely behind.

Black made a show of taking his wand out, as if to reassure me that if anything attacked us he'd be able to handle it. Oddly enough, his kind gesture successfully placated my nerves. In any case, I was beginning to feel extremely foolish for overreacting like I had. It was highly unlikely that I'd seen the Grim in the bushes—it was probably just a stray dog. We walked quickly, and it was silent except for the chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.

"You have to promise you won't tell James you saw me here," Black said suddenly.

I crossed my arms across my chest. "Okay?"

"No, you don't get it," he said, a note of urgency having crept into his voice."I'm not supposed to be here, so just—just don't tell him.

"Alright, then," I said dismissively, but he didn't seem to be paying attention. Something behind me had caught his eye; I swiveled around to see what it was, but even in the darkness I could see that there was nothing there. "Black?" I questioned him worriedly, but he didn't notice. I wrapped my arms around myself, the cold night air raising goose bumps on my skin.

"He doesn't understand," he said finally.

"Er, what?"

"He doesn't understand," he repeated, still looking off into the dark. "It's not his fault. James can't possibly get it because he's never experienced anything like it. Keeps telling me to make up with my family, you know? So I told him I'd stay at the Black family manor over break. He's so good about certain things, but I just…fuck."

I was utterly confused. _What was he even talking about?_ "Are you drunk? It's not fair if they serve you alcohol but not me," I joked weakly, attempting to pull Black back to the present.

"I'm not drunk. I'm just mad at James," he groaned.

"…Why are you telling me this?"

He shrugged. "It's not as if you've got anyone to tell. Well, other than James," he amended quickly. "But you've just promised not to tell him, so—"

"Who says I'll keep my promise?"

The question didn't faze him. "You will. It's easier for you not to mention any of this." _Whatever _this_ is._

"Yes, but haven't you got anyone else to vent to?"

"Well, yeah. But _she's_ got her own things going on right now."

"Ooh," I said cooed mockingly, "a girl that's too busy to talk to Sirius Black?"

"Stop that," he muttered darkly. "She's not like other girls. You couldn't understand."

I choked back a laugh. "She's not like other girls? Really? That's quite possibly the most generic statement I've ever—"

"Yes, but it's true, isn't it?" Black said, growing angry. "There's no bloody reason for you to go around insulting my friends when you don't even know them. Besides," he added, smiling unexpectedly, "she's not too busy to talk to Sirius Black. When I talk to her, it's like I'm someone else."

"So she doesn't care that you're a Black? Don't tell me Mary McDonald sees the _real_ you?"

He frowned at the mention of his girlfriend's name. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"So? It's interesting that you put so much stock into your name. I can't imagine what it'd be like to go through life pureblooded and privileged—"

He stopped walking and turned to face me, a dark look on his face. "Can you shut the hell up?" he spat.

I shut my mouth obligingly, and we walked in silence. I withdrew a cigarette from my sweater pocket and without asking, Black lit it with the tip of his wand. I gave him a curt, grateful nod. He watched me take a long drag with undisguised curiosity and then took it from my hand. I recoiled slightly as his fingers brushed mine, but he paid no heed.

He seemed to have improved at smoking; he didn't cough when he slipped the cigarette between his lips. I watched him warily, taking in his tousled hair and the bags beneath his eyes.

"Reg's a sweetheart. Your family can't be all that bad," I said softly, unable to quell the idiotic urge to reassure him that overtook me as I examined his troubled appearance. Black glanced at me, surprised.

"…What?"

"Oh. Right," I said, blushing faintly in the darkness. "That—that thing over the summer—that was a misunderstanding."

Black stared at me incredulously, and I hurried to explain my change of heart. The last time we'd discussed this I'd accused his brother of being a potential rapist—but now that I knew Regulus that seemed to be far from the truth. "I don't think he really knew how his actions came across," I said. "Or how—I don't know—how uncomfortable he made me feel."

He took a long drag from the cigarette then exhaled the white smoke into the air; we watched it coil and twist before dissipating. "…That's the polite way to put it, I suppose," he said lightly, but his voice sounded strained.

"What do you mean?"

"It's all a game to him. Everything. He can't plan a day ahead." They were statements of fact; his voice was eerily devoid of all emotion.

"And you can?" I prompted.

"Dunno." He looked away and flicked cigarette ash onto the ground. "It was different for me, I guess. Growing up, I bought into everything they said—Aunt Bella and the like—"

"Black," I said, cutting in hastily, "I don't particularly care for your life story." The situation should have been tense—awkward, even, but strangely enough, I could understand why Black felt comfortable speaking about himself at the present. I didn't know what it was—perhaps the cold night air or the disparity between the warmth and laughter of the bar and the solemnity of the night—that made this talk feel important and even a bit necessary.

"Well, I've just had to sit through yours, so I think you owe me this much," he joked, but he glanced down as his feet and grew silent. The crunching of gravel underfoot was all that could be heard for a few minutes. My feet were moving of their own volition will, now; I realized with a jolt that I wasn't entirely sure where we were.

Black's joking words hung heavily in the air. It was the somber tone with which they were said that made me feel oddly guilty. I knew what it was like to be shot down; to have no one to turn to—and that was when I wrote to Padfoot. Sirius Black didn't have that option.

I shrugged belatedly. "I'm only joking," I said, just as surprised as he was to hear those words coming from myself. "You were right—there's no one I could even tell."

He said nothing. I cleared my throat loudly.

"Going to play the role of the stoic hero, then?"

His gaze met mine, and after a moment's contemplation he smiled wryly, an act of self-deprecation. I hid my surprise and smiled back tentatively.

"Right then," he said. "I dunno—I just—I don't know," he sighed.

"How eloquent," I commented lightly. Black's smile had disappeared, and he didn't bother to acknowledge my words.

"It was easier to be stupid when I was a kid," he said at length. "Because it was convenient. Because everything my family told me benefitted me—that I was better. Inherently better than nearly everyone else. So I didn't have to examine the facts—and I didn't."

I nodded uneasily, unsure of where this was going. This conversation was far too intimate—much more so than I'd expected. In its own way, its sincerity made it more even more personal than the misguided kiss we'd shared.

"Then I went to Hogwarts and it all turned fucking awful, what with being sorted into Gryffindor and all. My own family turned on me and it suddenly became convenient to examine the facts, to tear their arguments apart. To realize they were wrong about most nearly everything."

I was doing my best not to listen to him, at this point.

"I'm really just a self-serving bastard. Just like my family members are. Just like Reg is."

He looked at me, expecting some kind of response. I didn't know if he wanted me to deny his words or not—in any case, I agreed, he probably _was_ a self-serving bastard. But then, who wasn't? Only a Gryffindor could think looking out for your best interests was a _bad_ thing.

"Hm," I said, as if I were thinking on the matter, and then nodded conclusively. He saw through my façade at once, and raised an eyebrow as if to say _'Is that all?'_

"I don't think James would befriend a self-serving bastard," I said finally, because it seemed like a neutral way to wrap up this uncomfortable situation. We were quiet for some time. I glanced around. I'd have sworn we'd passed the same lamppost twice now, but Black continued walking confidently as if he knew exactly where we were headed.

"That's why I do things like this for him," he said at length. I looked at him inquisitively. "James, I mean. I try to keep him happy—tell him I've reconciled with my family like he wants me to. I feel like I owe it to him."

I realized, rather suddenly, that we'd touched upon the common thread not only of this conversation, but of ourselves: James. More specifically, the way James Potter seemed to collect damaged people, and in his own way attempt to help them forget their problems.

The streets we walked were a bit too familiar. Black seemed to be realizing this too, because he glanced around and stopped abruptly.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"Double fuck. I think we just walked in a circle?"

He handed me the cigarette and we turned down a side-street. We only had to go a quarter-mile to confirm my hypothesis: the lights of the inn could be seen down the street, and the muffled sounds of throaty laughter mingled with calls for another round could be heard from where we were.

"This is so stupid."

"Huh?"

I gestured towards the inn. "We're going to end up like them if we walk around moping like this."

"Drunk and overweight?" he laughed.

I dropped the cigarette butt and stepped on it, the smoldering orange of its lit end disappearing. It must've been in the early hours of the morning, because the door to the inn banged open and a gaggle of aged wizards exited, laughing uproariously as the grizzly bartender chased them out. They didn't notice us down the street.

I sat down on the curb and propped my head up on my palm. Black sat down next to me. Bathed in the orange light from the lone streetlamp at the corner, his skin seemed to have obtained an unhealthy pallor. His dark locks fell across his forehead, obscuring his startling grey eyes from view.

"It's fucking cold out," he said, mirroring my complaint from earlier in the night.

I said nothing.

"You're doing it again," he informed me briskly. "Thinking too much."

"I'm not thinking at all. It's wonderful." I felt oddly light-headed due to sleep-deprivation, and fatigued to the point where my senses were clouded and adrenaline-muddled.

"You're a bit scary, you know that?"

"Hm."

"How many cigarettes in a pack?"

I looked up, blinking blearily. _Did he want another? _Wordlessly, I dug the pack out of my sweater pocket and handed it to him. He counted.

"Eleven," he announced. "Eleven left in this one. I've been thinking, even if you haven't. I don't plan on being overweight. Or a drunkard. So I've come up with a counter-strategy," the forced lightness of his tone was disconcerting.

"You've come up with a counter-strategy," I echoed incredulously.

"That's what I just said. Twelve. That's how many cigarettes we're going to share, and we're going to do something stupid and fun to commemorate each one."

"And doing stupid and fun things is going to be helpful?"

"Obviously," he said patronizingly. "It'll counteract the excessive moping and…angstyness that we participate in."

"You're insane," I deadpanned.

He shrugged. "And as for cigarette number one—the one we've just had—I have the perfect idea." He turned his head in an exaggerated movement and looked across the street. I followed his gaze.

Illuminated by the moonlight, was a gleaming motorcycle.

"No." The word escaped my mouth before I'd even fully registered what he had in mind.

He smirked. "Is that a halfhearted no I hear?"

"Actually, it was of the unequivocal, resounding variety."

"Wait until I show you what it does and _then_ make up your mind," he scoffed.

"I know what it does. Jon—my brother—had a phase where he was obsessed with motorbikes."

Black seemed impressed. "Does he own one?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course not. He's a wizard. What are you insinuating about my family?" _Did he think we were muggle-lovers?_

"Dunno. Krupp isn't a pureblood name is it?"

I frowned. He began circling the motorcycle, inspecting it as if he were afraid it would jump at him.

A thought had occurred to me. "Thirteen cigarettes," I said.

"Hm?" he didn't bother looking up from the bike.

"We're going to have shared thirteen cigarettes because we shared one the night of the Halloween Bash."

"Hm," he said again.

"I take it the bike isn't yours?"

"How could I afford something like this?" he laughed.

"Seeing as you can afford a room at the inn…"

"I've got some spare money, but not enough for a beauty like this." He seemed to sense my skepticism and rushed to explain. "My Uncle Alphard died a year back and left me a decent sum. Enough to live on if I don't spend it on motorcycles," he sighed wistfully.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said. "I'll save up and buy one someday. Until then, I figure we can hotwire this one to start with magic."

"Black," I said, choking back a laugh, "I meant I was sorry about your uncle dying."

"Oh. Right. Still, don't be—he was an odd bloke. Lived a long life, though. I think he thought I was his son when he neared the end. It was a bit awkward."

I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. Black finally tore his attention away from the bike to look at me curiously, but broke out into a grin when he realized my laughter was genuine.

"I like you, Krupp," he said. That sobered me up quickly and I leveled him with a glare. "Come on now, don't look like I've just murdered your pet owl," he joked. "You really aren't half bad. I don't hang out with girls much."

"Platonically, you mean."

He grinned again, not bothering to deny it. After a beat of silence, he said: "This is the part when you say my feelings are mutual."

I thought about it a moment. "I don't like you, though."

"Didn't think you were the type to dislike someone on principle," he said finally.

A familiar wave of frustration rose within me. "You can't seriously think that you've done nothing to make me dislike you," I said, the words getting caught in my throat.

Black stood up from where he'd been crouching by the bike and dusted off his hands on his shirt. "Don't go and do that," he muttered. "Don't start holding things against me that I've already apologized for."

"Black," I said, "shall I list the things you've said and done in a concerted effort to make me feel like shit about myself? Apologies don't…they don't magically make it all go away."

He scowled. "Well you've clearly forgiven dear old 'Reg'. Am I not good enough?"

I bit my lip. "I think—I think the reason I can talk to you rather easily is because I haven't forgiven you. Because I don't like you," I said uneasily.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" He didn't sound angry, just annoyed.

"It's easier to talk to you because…it's as if what I say doesn't mean anything."

"Ah. Right. I'd forgotten your convoluted theory. I'm not a character in your story, ergo you don't care about me. I'd almost forgotten what a fuckup you are for a moment there. Forgive me."

"It's not just that I don't care about you, it's that I don't particularly care what you _think_ of me."

"You shouldn't care what anyone thinks of you," Black said fiercely, stepping closer so there was scarcely a foot's distance between us. I could tell he actually meant it, that he went out of his way to live by that mantra. It was the decisive yet vulnerable tone of his voice that seemed to betray that he'd said and revealed too much. Silence fell between us for an excruciating minute.

I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth and toed the ground. "I want to go home," I said.

Black sighed, racking a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Okay. Come with me," he said, and headed back towards the inn. "I've got an idea," he called over his shoulder when he realized I hadn't moved.

I followed him, not entirely sure of what he had in mind.

He held the door open and I entered. The old bartender looked up, exasperated. "We're closed! Can't ye read, dogginit?" he groaned, gesturing towards the sign at the window.

Black stepped out from behind me, entering the inn, and waved a dismissive hand at the bartender. "We're heading up to my room," he explained.

The old man snorted and returned to mopping up a spill at the bar with a rag that looked dirty enough to be hurting his cause more than helping. "Of course ye are," he muttered beneath his breath.

Black seemed horrified by the implications of this. He edged away from me as if reconsidering whatever it was he'd had in mind.

I couldn't resist. I closed the space between us and pressed myself against him, fluttering my eyelashes foolishly. The bartender—who it seemed doubled as the innkeeper—cast Black one last disgusted look before heading into the back room.

"You're awful," Black said looking down at me, but he seemed more amused than anything.

I shrugged.

He shook his head with amusement and then headed for the stairs. "C'mon," he said, "my room's just up here."

I followed him up the spiraling wooden steps which ended at a dimly-lit corridor.

"This entire place is a fire hazard," I could help quipping. To my surprise, Black only nodded in agreement. The hall was lit with torches that were magically charmed to stay afloat. He pushed open a door and entered. The door banged shut behind him. A moment later he stuck his head out, exasperated.

"Are you coming or what?"

I raised my eyebrows in surprise but entered obligingly.

Black seemed uncharacteristically nervous, as if awaiting my judgment. "Right," he said a bit too briskly, "that's my half." He pointed to the left and the adjoining bedroom.

The general quarters that we stood in were sparsely furnished. It might've been a medieval inn for all the amenities it offered. There was a tall bookshelf in the corner (with no books in it) and a desk with a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill in an inkwell, but other than that the room was virtually empty.

"Have you got company?" I asked. The quarters were large for one person.

Black nodded. "Yeah, I've got a roommate. He stays in the other half. And my owl's usually around too, but I suppose she's out for the night. Now just hang on a moment, I'll go and ask my roommate—"

He broke off, not bothering to explain and went through the door on the right side of the room. I wandered over to the desk and sat down. The quarters were so…cold. Not in the literal sense, but with regards to the atmosphere itself. They didn't seem lived in and lacked the slight touches—pictures, books, household items, even—that gave a home character. It was so at odds with Black's congenial and extroverted personality that he flaunted at Hogwarts.

I idly drummed my fingers across the desk's surface, wondering what Black was conversing with his roommate for. He didn't actually expect me to spend the night on his (nonexistent) couch or something, did he? I surmised that he was asking if his roommate had extra floo powder.

This wasn't a particularly nice neighborhood. I could hear muggle sirens sounding as vehicles rushed past the window. Distractedly, I fiddled with the drawers in the desk. The first was empty, but the second revealed a sheaf of tightly bound letters. Some were faded and yellowed with age, whereas others seemed relatively new.

_Who wrote Black so many letters?_

I couldn't imagine any of his friends being the sort to sit down and write this frequently or this much.

"Ah-hem."

I jumped out of the seat at the sound of Black's voice. He rolled his eyes and tossed me something. I caught it instinctively and examined it. It was a wand.

"We'll both apparate to your place, and then when we get there you give me that back and I'll return and give Mr. Higgins's wand back to him."

"Mr. Higgins?"

"My roommate. Cantankerous old fool that looks like St. Nick."

"Right," I said. "And he just agreed to lend his wand to a stranger?" I asked incredulously.

Black coughed. "Er, well, not exactly. He's asleep right now but I found it in his trunk. He won't even know it was ever gone—"

I tossed the wand back at him as if it burned to touch, horrified. "Black! That's illegal! Stealing a wand—that's like—you might as well—"

Black rolled his eyes again. "Fine," he said, "if you're going to be all dramatic about it then you use mine and I'll use his. Some Slytherin you are."

He handed me his wand from his back pocket and I accepted it tentatively, aware that he was going far out of his way to assist me, yet unable to fathom why.

"Thanks," I said tentatively. He simply nodded. "I live in St. Ottery Catchpole," I informed him. "By the eastern outskirts." He nodded again, and then there was a sharp _crack_ that rent the air as we both apparated.

I landed dizzily on hard pavement. It was a disconcerting experience to apparate with someone else's wand. I rose to my feel unsteadily. Black's apparation seemed to have gone smoothly. He was a bit down the street, looking up at my parents' cottage, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Figured that he'd end up closer to where I lived than I would.

I approached him.

"It's nice," he said, referring to the cottage.

"Thanks," I said, then handed him his wand. "And thank you for everything else, too, Black. I know you didn't have to help me."

"Sirius," he said. "It's Sirius. And don't worry about it." Without even bothering to look in my direction or bid me farewell, he disapparated smoothly.

"Bloody Gryffindor," I murmured as I stared into the empty space where he'd just been, but somehow I couldn't muster enough venom to make my ire sound believable.

* * *

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock._

I got out of bed, still wrapped in my blanket, only tripped twice, and seized the clock.

"I'm going to smash you," I informed it, vaguely aware that it would've appeared to any onlookers—had there been any—that I was completely bonkers. I probably was, anyway. I bloody exhausted from having gotten home so late the night before, and I was starved to boot.

I hopped downstairs, still cocooned in my blanket as I went past my mother, who seemed too shocked by my disheveled appearance (and hopping) to offer her usual disparaging comments.

I wasn't sure how exactly I was going to smash the idiotic thing—perhaps I'd simply dash it against the pavement—but in any case, I didn't have to. As I headed for the door, the hooting of my father's owl caught my attention. I pursed my lips, considering the idea that had just occurred to me.

I dropped the blanket and went into my father's study. I wrapped the clock in heavy paper and tacked a note onto it.

_Consider this a housewarming gift. Cast a silencing charm on it for your own sake. Merry Christmas._

_-A.K._

I gave the package to my father's owl and whispered to it softly before letting it out the open window.

"Take this to the Amesworth Inn," I said. "It's intended for Sirius Black."

* * *

**A/N :** Whoa almost a full chapter of Sirius/Andrea interaction? Whaaat? Also, it's my duty to inform you that reviews are as nice as a well-dressed boy with a good sense of humor. _Hint. _In other news, this is 21 pages long. Eeep. How much is too much? And on that note, thank you for reading. Stay cool.


	12. Jump

**A/N:** Written from Sirius' perspective.

_- Jump -_

Platform 9 ¾ wasn't nearly as packed as it was when summer holidays ended, so Sirius was able to spot James Potter entering the Hogwarts Express quite easily among the sparse crowd of students returning from their Christmas holidays. When he saw his best friend, he realized that something was horrifically wrong. He boarded just after him and followed him down the corridor, but James didn't turn around when he called his name.

"James," Sirius repeated urgently.

This time his friend turned around. The boy ignored his greeting and simply grabbed his hand and dragged him into a compartment. Sirius tried again. "James," he whispered again, wondering if this was what it felt like to go into shock.

James threw himself down across from him and hid his face in his hands.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said sorrowfully. Sirius stared at him in awe.

The compartment door banged open and Remus, closely followed by an out-of-breath Peter, came in lugging his trunk.

"I figured you lot were in here," Remus said wryly, his back turned to James as he stowed his trunk overhead, "considering it's the biggest compartment. So Pete and I—" He paused and turned towards his friend, who was staring at something behind Remus, open-mouthed. "Pete?" he asked worriedly.

"Prongs," Pete whispered, "what have they done to you?"

Remus pivoted around. "What—oh. _Oh._"

"I don't want to talk about it," James wailed.

"It's of the utmost importance that we talk about this," Sirius declared loudly. He was beginning to recover from his shock, and the situation was becoming increasingly funny to him.

"It was my Mum," James said, refusing to remove his hands from his face. "She did this to me. Said I needed a trim."

"It…it doesn't look so bad," Remus ventured cautiously.

James looked at him through his fingers. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Er, well, yeah, actually. I am. It looks awful," Remus confessed, exchanging a glance with Sirius, who was cracking up.

"You're bald, Prongs," Sirius chortled. "You look like a baby Prongslet."

"He's not bald," Peter said, jumping to James' defense. He reached out and tentatively patted James' head. "There's some hair left. It'll grow back in no time!"

Sirius and Remus roared with laughter as James turned bright red and tried to swat Peter away. The compartment door banged open once more and a redheaded girl entered, already dressed in her robes with her Prefect badge pinned on.

"What is going on in here?" she asked shrilly. "I can hear you from down the—" She stopped as her gaze settled on James. "I—oh. Dear Merlin. Your hair."

"Or more accurately, his lack of," Sirius supplied, but the girl didn't seem to hear. Instead, she stood stock still, her jaw working up and down in silence.

"Go away, Evans," James moaned. "Or don't. Go ahead and laugh like my traitor friends are. I don't care. Nothing matters anymore."

"You…you're…you're so _stupid. _It's just your hair," Lily finally got out, rolling her eyes quite forcefully at his theatrics. She turned on her heel and made to leave, but stopped with her hand on the door. "You two!" she snapped at Remus and Sirius. They straightened up and tried to stem their laughter. "Stop laughing at him! Minus five points each. For—for disturbing the peace!"

She walked out and slammed the door behind her.

"What an uptight bi—" Sirius began.

"Oy! That's my lady love," James yelped. "She's just defending my honor."

"James," Peter said thoughtfully, "I think you actually may be right. She was sticking up for you."

James' eyes widened. "Do you think so?"

Sirius groaned. "Can we not discuss this? He'll be harping on it for the next month anyway."

"Very true, Padfoot," Remus sighed. "Let's discuss something else. How was your break?"

"Yeah, Pads," James said, his tone of voice uncharacteristically constrained. "How was your break?"

"It was…nice," Sirius hedged. James believed that he'd spent all of break at the Black family manor, while Remus and Peter thought he'd crashed at his cousin Andromeda's house. He had no intention of spinning a convoluted lie for James; complicating the issue would make him feel guilty as hell.

"Nice?" James asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah, nice," he said, feeling desperate to change the subject. "Speaking of breaks—Moony, how was yours?"

Inexplicably, Remus blushed an alarming shade of pink and mumbled something incoherent.

"Sorry, what was that? You didn't happen to say—_It was positively dapper because I met a girl even though I won't tell my best mates what her name is?_" Sirius asked innocently.

"Shut up, Padfoot. That letter was supposed to be between you and me!"

"Don't be silly. Who is she?"

"Shut up!" Remus hissed.

"Remy, who is she?"

"Don't call me—"

"Yeah, don't call him Remy, Sirius!" Peter chimed in.

"Yeah, stop it," James said. "Why do you have to be so mean to Moony all the time?"

"What?" Sirius gaped.

"Don't bully Remus. That's what."

"Exactly," Peter said, nodding his head vigorously.

Remus tried in vain to cut in. "Er, thanks guys, but he's not being _that_ rude—"

"Yes, he is. Sirius is an arse," James quipped, grinning mischievously.

"I'm not mean to Moony!" Sirius practically yelled. "You can't do this! We were supposed to gang up on Moony, not me."

"See, Moony?" Peter exclaimed. "He wants us to gang up on you."

Remus sighed. "You're all idiots. All of you."

"No, Remus," James said solemnly. "We're your _friends._"

"Not true. I'm not friends with any of you anymore," Sirius announced.

"Right," James said skeptically as he adjusted his glasses.

"Right," Sirius echoed. "I'm going to go find Mary."

He stood up to leave, but all three of his friends grabbed him by his robes and pulled him down.

"You are hereby _forbidden_ from shagging your girlfriend on the train," Remus said.

"Yeah, that's just gross, mate," James said, sounding a bit disgusted.

"I wasn't going to shag her," Sirius muttered guiltily. "I was going to ask her what her break was like."

"Of course you were," Peter said, rolling his eyes.

Sirius gaped and turned to Remus and James. "Look what you've done! You've taught Peter sarcasm. And eye rolling! You're awful influences on him. I don't even know what to—"

James laid a consoling hand on his friend's shoulder. "Sirius. Shut up. Sit down."

"We have matters to discuss," Remus added.

"Matters to discuss?" he repeated warily. He glanced at his three friends and took in the slightly maniacal glints in their eyes. "Oh," he said, a grin forming on his face. "Well, then. Let's get started."

* * *

Loic Yaxley rose to his feet at the front of the hall and dusted off his high-collared robes in preparation to address the students gathered before him.

Sirius watched with undisguised interest. He'd been introduced to Yaxley when he was a boy, years before he'd come to Hogwarts. It had been at a dinner party hosted by one of his mother's friends, and Yaxley had been given unfavorable seating far from the head of the table. He'd been a pimply faced youth, hair slicked back and scrawny to boot, but it appeared that he'd come up in the world.

Dinner at Hogwarts had comprised primarily of Christmas feast leftovers—which Sirius had no problem with, obviously. The Black's were famous for their insatiable appetites (for food, but also violence and bigotry, among other things, Sirius often lamented).

Dumbledore had spoken first, and explained the newest addition to the curriculum: Elementary and Advanced Dueling classes. They'd be held in the courtyard, and would be beginning next week. The first class for 6th years would be on Wednesday, and would comprise of the entire year. They'd be sorted into Elementary and Advanced groups, and from thereon in, the classes would be held in smaller groups.

Sirius couldn't bloody wait to start. Dueling sounded like loads of fun—but Mr. Yaxley hadn't thought so, apparently. As Dumbledore had spoken, Yaxley's face had gone from a look of slight distaste to a full out sneer, and know, as he stood to speak to the hall about his new position at Hogwarts, he looked disgusted.

"Ah-hem," he said. The hall grew silent. Yaxley smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thank you for your kind introduction, Albus," he said, nodding towards Dumbledore.

Sirius decided he didn't like the man then and there. Calling Headmaster Dumbledore, recipient of an Order of Merlin First Class, _Albus_? Never mind the fact that Sirius referred to him as Alby and Professor McGonagall as Minnie—it was entirely unacceptable for anyone but a Marauder to take that kind of liberty.

"_Ten,_" James whispered.

Sirius grinned at his best mate as Yaxley continued.

"I must say, it's certainly very…enlightening to return to Hogwarts and see how it's run these days," Yaxley practically spat, making it quite clear how he felt about the school's faculty.

"_Nine._"

"As many of you know, the Ministry—in the name of education, of course—is interested in increasing its presence at Hogwarts."

Sirius wasn't buying that, and as he glanced around, he noticed the same, disconcerted look he was sporting on the face of several other students. _In the name of education?_ _What a load of rubbish._

"_Eight._"

"I, myself, mark the beginning of this trend. A few more of my colleagues from the Ministry will also be installed at positions at Hogwarts in the coming months."

"_Seven,_" Sirius and James whispered at the same time, softly enough that no one but Peter, who was wedged between them on the bench, could hear.

"I will be meeting with each individual student over the course of the next few weeks, and interviewing you so that the Ministry can produce a registrar of enrolled students. The school board has made their files unavailable to us, hence the need for one-on-one interviews.

"_Six._"

"The information we will be adding—"

Sirius glanced at his watch; the countdown sped up as their finale approached.

"_Five._"

"—will pertain primarily to family background, magical status—"

_Magical status? What did that mean?_

"_Four._"

"—and other pertinent information that we choose to seek out."

Sirius wished, rather suddenly, that Remus were present. He was confined to the hospital wing until darkness fell, and then he'd be transported to the Shrieking Shack. It made sense for Remus to be the one to see this—Remus who had zero tolerance for bigotry…

James was often like an extension of Sirius himself—neither of them had a head for planning these sorts of pranks, but Remus was always one step ahead. He'd masterminded this on his own, and the Marauders had worked together on the train to work out the logistics.

"_Three._"

"It is imperative that students answer our questions with absolute honesty," Yaxley said, smiling cruelly. "Or else the Ministry will be forced to take action."

"_Two._"

"Absolute honestly," Yaxley repeated, clearly savoring the confused and slightly fearful faces of the majority of the students in the hall. "That is what is required of you. And should you lie—should you get in the Ministry's way—"

"_One._"

There was a loud bang, and faculty's table at the head of the hall was engulfed in thick, pink smoke. The pink tint of the smoke and the noisy bang were both perfectly unnecessary, but James had insisted on them for maximum dramatic impact, and after a heated debate, Moony had finally agreed to include them into their plans.

Sirius was grateful for those particular inclusions at that moment; the Great Hall was thrown into chaos. A few of the students cheered, recognizing the Marauder's juvenile handiwork (loud bangs and odd colors basically spelled out Marauder involvement to many of the students—Sirius wasn't sure whether to take this as an insult or not).

Most of the students, though, and a large portion of the staff, shrieked in surprise. There was one notable exception—from within the dense cloud of smoke, Dumbledore's jovial, rumbling laughter could be clearly heard.

As James, Sirius, and Peter exchanged high-fives, Sirius had the strange feeling that perhaps the success of this particular prank wasn't entirely due to Moony's brilliance—perhaps Dumbledore had known about it (he did seem to know about nearly everything, after all) and simply chosen to let it go ahead.

The smoke dissipated rather quickly, probably due to the quick thinking of a handful of the professors who simply vanished it or waved it aside with their wands, and it was revealed that the staff table was unharmed.

Most of the teachers were untouched, despite being thoroughly startled.

Mr. Yaxley, however, couldn't count himself among that number. In fact, Mr. Yaxley wasn't there at all. Atop the dais where he'd been speaking (or more accurately, _threatening_, Sirius thought) was an over-large, confused looking toad.

For a moment, Sirius was struck by the fear that at last, the Marauders had gone too far. Transfiguring a Ministry official, though a brilliant bit of magic, was clearly a serious offense for a student to commit.

"James_. Shit._ We're done for, don't you think?" Sirius whispered as the students around him roared with laughter at Yaxley's predicament.

James elbowed him in the ribs. "Take a look at that, mate," he said, nodding towards the staff's table. Many of the staff—in fact, nearly all of them—were smiling, and a few were even coughing loudly to disguise their laughter. "I'd say we aren't done for at all."

Sirius glanced around; it appeared that everyone save for the Slytherins found their prank vastly amusing. And who gave two shits about the Slytherins?

…All right, maybe Sirius did a _tiny_ bit, and maybe he paused for a moment to search for his brother's face in the crowd of students, and _maybe_ he felt inordinately pleased when he saw Regulus fighting back a smile…

The toad was rushed off to the hospital wing, and it was announced that the students were to clear the hall and head back to their respective common rooms.

The three of them, James, Sirius and Peter, lagged behind the crowd of students and took their time heading up. As they rounded the corridor, they were confronted by none other than Lily Evans. Sirius groaned instinctively at the hopeful expression on James' face.

Sirius hated seeing that expression disappear every time Evans the Bitch decided to rip into him.

"You three!" Evans said rather shrilly. "I know—I just _know_ that you were responsible for what just happened."

"Yeah? What are you going to do, Evans? Dock more points off us for it?" Sirius drawled.

She seemed surprised by this statement, and blushed a bit. "No. No, of course not. I just want to know…how?"

"Marauders never tell," Peter informed her proudly.

Evans seemed to have noticed that James was uncharacteristically silent. It was probably due to the promise he'd made her that he'd stay out of her way, which he'd done an admirable job of keeping. Sirius still held out on the hope that he'd move on and find someone who didn't take pleasure in walking all over him, and so he was gratified to see James' expression remain unchanged when Lily addressed him:

"You have to tell me, though! James, please."

"Why?" he asked bluntly.

"Because the smoke, the bang—I understand all that. A first year could do it. But the transfiguration was brilliant, and I know that was you, James."

And then Sirius saw something happen that he wouldn't have believed possible. James and Lily's roles reversed. James shrugged dismissively and continued walking, and Lily looked after him, looking slightly crestfallen.

Lily swallowed audibly, and Peter and Sirius stood there awkwardly for a moment, awe-struck by James' sudden decision—after six bloody years—to stand up for himself.

"He thinks I'm a bitch," Lily whispered, and when neither Sirius nor Peter bothered to deny her statement, her eyes widened. "You two think I'm a bitch, too."

Sirius shrugged.

"Well can you imagine being pursued by someone you aren't interested in for six years? It's not a pleasant experience. In the muggle world it's a felony. It's harassment. I'm not a bitch I'm just—"

"Evans," Sirius cut in, "shut up. Everyone knows James can be a complete arsehole. He should've backed off ages ago, especially considering it was hopeless to start with. I don't think there's a person in this school that truly blames you for disliking him, alright? It's just my job as his best mate to try and convince myself that I do."

Evans' eyes had gone even wider. "Alright. Okay. I appreciate your honesty. I think."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Pete. Let's head up."

"Wait," Lily called, rushing to keep in step with them. "I wanted to congratulate you on, er, on a job well done, I suppose. Yaxley was saying such horrid things and he just…well, it's nice to see that people like you and James—purebloods, I mean—don't approve, so…Well done."

_Fuck._ It was absurdly bizarre to see goody-two-shoes, golden girl Lily Evans fall apart like this because one of one idiotic Ministry official. Sirius didn't even know how to respond, but thankfully, Peter chose to step in and fill the silence.

"Wow," Peter said.

"Wow?" Lily echoed worriedly, wringing her hands.

"I think what my good friend Peter is attempting to express is that you're a bit of a wreck at the moment, Evans. Get some sleep. You may be a bitch, but Gryffindor has your back."

Lily gaped. "I'm not a wreck, Black. But thank you, I appreciate it," she added with a smile. She hurried off ahead of them, taking the steps two at a time to get to the Common Room before them, but paused to call over her shoulder.

"Oh, and before I forget—minus five points each. You're loitering after hours."

Sirius cursed.

"I heard that. Language, Black. That's another three points."

_Merlin, _Sirius thought. Some things never changed.

* * *

The fact that his friends had unanimously decided that he be the one to attend the New Years party at the Room of Requirement stung.

It made sense that they'd assume he wanted to go. And normally he would have. When they'd told him at first, he'd been confused. It was a full moon; they were supposed to sneak out to the Shrieking Shack and transform into their animagi forms to make the night easier to Moony like they always did. But Moony was simply being logical—if none of the Marauders showed up to one of the biggest parties of the year, people would be suspicious.

To hell with suspicion, though. Sirius didn't care. But his friends had thought they'd been doing him a favor. "It's killing two birds with one stone," Moony'd said. "We stay predictable enough to stay out of trouble, and you get to have a blast." Sirius had felt slightly nauseous at that statement, but he'd laughed with his friends. But when Moony had added, "Have a good time, for my sake," Sirius hadn't known what to say. For his sake? His best friend—his brother—was going to go through a process of extreme pain, and he was urging Sirius to have a good time? Did his friends think he was that shallow?

And it was because of that that Sirius entered the party determined not to enjoy himself, and to make a round and then meet up with his real friends as soon as possible. When he entered, though, he was pleasantly surprised to see someone whose company he could stomach at that moment.

"Frank! Fancy seeing you here," Sirius called, heading over to him by the bar.

Frank turned at the sound of Sirius' voice and grinned good-naturedly. "Sirius! I'm a bit surprised find myself here as well. And I was a bit surprised that _you_ weren't here when I arrived."

Sirius felt a faint twist in his gut, but he laughed off Frank's comment. "What're you doing here, anyway? You haven't gotten lost on your way to the greenhouse, have you?"

"Alas, it appears that I have!" Frank exclaimed, and took a tentative swig of his drink. He spit it out almost immediately. "Eugh. How do people drink this?"

Sirius shrugged and downed his. Frank looked suitably impressed.

"Jesus, Frank. You don't even drink? I mean it—what are you doing here?" Sirius asked jokingly.

Frank's grin turned sheepish. "If you must know, I was hoping a certain female would be in attendance."

"And is she?" Sirius asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Frank glanced around with a look of resignation. "Apparently not," he sighed.

"Bad luck, I suppose. There are plenty of nice birds here. Take your pick," Sirius suggested, despite knowing full well that Frank Longbottom was the person least likely to have a one night stand. Predictably, Frank shook his head at the suggestion. "Alright then," Sirius said. "I propose that we adjourn to the balcony for some fresh air! What say you?"

"Edric Lukin and company have already claimed it," Frank stated dryly.

"And company?" Sirius asked. _What in hell did that mean?_

Frank let out a wry laugh. "Go on and have a look."

"I think I will. Cheers, mate," he called over his shoulder to Frank as he stepped out. He nearly stumbled back a step as he was caught by a gust of cold air. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to see what Frank had meant: Edric Lukin was surrounded by a group of his mates that amounted to "and company," and at that precise moment, was explaining something to a serious-looking dark haired boy.

"I reaaally like her, don't worry, Jon."

The dark haired boy arched an eyebrow. "I know you, Edric. You're a decent bloke. I never said I was worried."

"Good," Edric said, nodding enthusiastically. "Great."

The other boy seemed amused by this, and clapped a hand on Edric's shoulder then disappeared back into the Room of Requirement, brushing past Sirius in the process.

Sirius stepped forward on cue. "Hullo," he said, greeting Edric. Edric beamed in response.

"Shirius Black! Hi!"

Sirius grinned. "So you've got a new girl?" he asked, not bothering to dance around the issue. He'd played Edric at quidditch before, and he was a brilliant beater who'd already been recruited to play for Britain upon graduation, but despite his quidditch prowess, he'd never exploited his fame or good looks to land girls, and so Sirius was slightly curious to know who'd finally won him over.

"Yeah. Andrea Krupp," he said, grinning rakishly. "She's really shweet, too."

Sirius nearly fell over. Partly because the news startled him, and partly because someone had just shoved him as they walked past. He gave Edric an appraising look.

"Sweet?" Were they talking about the same person? This was the girl who'd sent him an _alarm clock_ for Christmas—an alarm clock that rang at ungodly hours and couldn't be turned off. He'd written back immediately, asking her why she's sent him a _clock_, and she's responded indignantly, telling him it added character to his flat.

Long story short, Andrea Krupp wasn't sweet. She was mental.

"Yeah, shweet," Edric continued, oblivious to Sirius' incredulous tone. "She's cute. It's really refreshing. She doeshn't talk much—_hic_—I guessh she's shy—but when she does, it actually means shtuff."

"Er, yeah?"

"Yeah," Edric said. Sirius eyed him warily as he continued blabbering. "I want to go slooow with her. To make it special. You know? Just taking baby shteps so you can treasure the small moments—_hic!_—that count."

"Baby steps? I think you might've had a bit too much to drink, mate."

This seemed to confuse Edric. "No," he said, sounding perturbed, "I haven't been drinking at all tonight." Sirius glanced at the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey in Edric's hand, and wisely decided to step away from the intoxicated 7th year.

He'd just have to converse with a few people and then he'd be free to sneak out and join the rest of the Marauders as they looked out for Moony. He searched the crowd for his girlfriend. He didn't have to search for long. She found him before he found her. Her skinny arms wrapped around his body and pulled him back before he could step back in from the balcony, and she whispered in his ear.

"Hello, darling."

Sirius grinned and turned around, and greeted her with a kiss, which inevitably turned into a prolonged snog. He could taste the alcohol on her lips, and he didn't want to let go. He disentangled himself from her after a few minutes, feeling a prick of guilt for living up to Remus' comment..._Have a good time, for my sake._

Without speaking a word to Mary, he pushed himself away from her and stood over the balcony's edge, his hands fisted around the railing as he breathed in the chilly air, cleansing his lungs. The dark haired boy from before who'd stepped out had returned, and it seemed he'd had the same idea as Sirius. He propped his elbows up on the rail and breathed in the fresh air.

"Steady on, mate," he said, acknowledging Sirius' presence before heading back in once more. Sirius nodded once, his gaze following the boy out, and landing on Mary, who was still outside. She stood beside a 6th year. Roman Vander, a Ravenclaw. She pressed her hand against Roman's chest, giggling, and turned her head to look at Sirius through her kohl-rimmed eyes, taunting him.

A sour taste filled his mouth, and his throat closed up for a moment as Mary smiled up at Roman, fluttering her eyelashed. She knew Sirius was watching; that's what this spectacle was for. She wouldn't really kiss Roman, would she? It didn't matter. She was trying to get Sirius' attention, and he'd oblige her.

"Hey, Mary!" he called. She turned her head—or more accurately, flipped her hair and turned her head in the process.

"Oh my god," she laughed, clapping her hands together as he climbed on top of the rail.

Sirius grinned and turned to face her, balancing precariously on the thin ledge. He pressed his palms against the awning overhead and nodded at the gathering crowd that was drunkenly cheering him on. His hand slipped and for a split-second his stomach dropped and unadulterated fear raced through him before he found his footing.

The crowd cheered again, and Sirius reveled in their attention. But not all of them were cheering him now. Some of them were looking at him strangely; some of them had turned away, shaking their heads at his antics.

"He's crazy," he heard a 7th year mutter as she made her way back in.

_Well fuck you, too, _Sirius thought.

The crowd thinned steadily, though a few students stayed to try and coax him down, Mary among them, but Sirius was intoxicated by the heady feeling of being up so high, of having so far to fall.

"Did you know the fear you feel when you're on a ledge isn't fear that you'll fall?" he asked.

"Sirius..." Mary said, growing exasperated.

"It's fear that you'll jump."

"That's so...ridiculous. You're being so…Just please get down from—"

"It's not, though," he said, the wind stealing his rough words before she could hear them. The night air lifted the hair at his brow, and he tilted his head back, his eyes shuttering closed. "It's not ridiculous at all. A part of you wants to. Let it all go, I mean. _Jump._"

The noise around him faded; he could still hear the muted noise of Mary pleading with him to step down—she was the only one left now, the others had gone back in—but his eyes opened and for a moment he felt as if he were being held aloft in the breeze. He looked down at the grounds, and would have sworn that he saw a figure making her way out of the castle.

"Sirius, just—please..."

He leaned farther over, catching sight of the figure and with a shock, making out who it was. _No fucking way. What were the odds? _

He scrambled off of the balcony, nearly tripping and landing on his arse as he jumped down. Mary seemed unbelievably relieved by the sudden disappearance of his death wish, and reached out to grasp his hand, but he pushed her away and practically sprinted through the Room of Requirement. He didn't bother taking out the cloak, which was tucked into his robes. He hurried down the steps, past a yelling Prefect on patrol, and through the main doors. _She_ must have unlocked them when she'd gone out.

She wasn't by the castle walls anymore, and he wandered out onto the grounds with his wand out until he caught sight of her. She stood overlooking the lake, as if pondering something complex. _Well, she'd picked a fucking awful night to do that._ Fear coiled through him insidiously as he approached, hoping to hell he got there before any of his friends did.

"Hey!" he yelled.

Andrea Krupp jumped at the sound of his voice and whirled around with her wand pointing in his direction. "Oh," she breathed, "it's just you."

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Having a smoke?" she suggested sarcastically and brandished her cigarette. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

He didn't bother to answer her question. "Listen, it's not safe out tonight. You have to come with me," he said urgently.

"What? What do you mean it's not safe? We're within the castle's grounds. I'm not afraid of the dark," she scoffed.

"There's something out there! A—a yeti, okay? It's a yeti."

"A yeti?"

An idea struck him. Making the trek back to the castle a quarter-mile away didn't seem like a feasible idea. There was something else they could do. Werewolves were afraid of water—or so he thought—neither DADA nor Care of Magical Creatures had ever been his strong suit—but he could _try._ He grabbed her hand and half-dragged her to an inlet in the lake where he and the Marauders had discovered that they stored some of the boats. Only a few remained, and he picked the one that looked the sturdiest.

"Get in the fucking boat or so help me—"

"Are you insane? Why would there be a yeti within the school's perimeter? There are wards; magical creatures can't just sneak in."

"Just get in the fucking boat," he hissed.

"I'm not getting into a fucking boat on the Black Lake at midnight because you think a monster sneaked past Albus Dumbledore's wards—"

"Some monsters, as you put it, don't have to sneak in. They're here all along."

A piercing, mournful howl cut across the area, and she stilled.

"That—that doesn't sound like a yeti. It sounds like a—"

The howl rent the air again, reaching a fever pitch and growing louder. Sirius didn't pause to think. He shoved her into the boat and climbed over her fallen form to board, then grasped the oars, and with a few powerful strokes, put them on course for the center of the lake. He fervently hoped that the Giant Squid was soundly asleep and wouldn't be able to disturb them.

He looked up to see that Andrea hadn't moved, and still lay prone across the wooden flowing.

He reached across to grab her arm and pull her up, but she drew back, scrambling away. Sirius blinked in surprise. He leveled her with his gaze. They were safe now. If she wasn't afraid of the so-called yeti, why was she afraid now?

_She was afraid of him. _Afraid of the way he'd physically thrown her into the boat without a second gears in his mind whirred and locked into place, and he realized something that he should have the first time he'd spoken to her.

"Someone hurt you." His voice was steely and eerily cold; it didn't even seem to be coming from him, but rather a whisper from some distant spot across the lake.

She didn't even bother to deny it or look surprised by this sudden turn of their conversation; she stared down at her lap and gulped audibly.

"Who?" he hissed angrily. "Who was it?" She flinched slightly, as if afraid that his anger was directed at her, but then seemed to think better of it. Her shoulders slumped and her dark hair swept over her shoulders as she shook her head in response.

Her lack of a response didn't matter. It was a stupid question in the first place, because he knew exactly who. She'd told him the first time they'd truly spoken.

…_Mulciber tried to get your brother to rape me…_

_Just for fun. Because that's the sort of thing he does…_

"That…that fucking Slytherin piece of shit," Sirius spat. The boat lurched, swaying precariously as he shifted, and she reached blindly for the sides. Seconds passed in silence before the boat steadied and he spoke again. "I'm going to kill him."

He didn't really know the girl in front of him—he didn't know her well enough to think Edric was wrong about her, or to know what she was thinking at this exact moment, or even to manage to carry on a proper conversation with her without arguing—but at the same time, he felt as if he did.

He hadn't been lying in Amesworth when he'd said he liked her. She was interesting. Confusing. _Odd._

He _wanted_ to know her.

She was shaking her head again, and this made him inexplicably angry. He'd seen women act like this before—it was all too common in the pureblood society he'd once been a part of. Women that had been mistreated by their husbands would refuse to acknowledge the reality of their situations.

"Stop saying no. Don't make excuses for that utter bas—"

"You're wrong," she choked out, her voice catching slightly in her throat.

"—tard. Wait. What?"

She pressed her hands to her face, letting her hair fall in front of it once more and hiding from his gaze. "You're wrong. It's not him."

"If it wasn't Mulciber, who was it?"

"_Me._"

The word came out as a whisper, and something about it made Sirius want to drop the matter entirely. He regretted pressing her so hard; she didn't seem to be taking it well. She was crying now—despite her face being hidden from view, he could hear it in her voice.

She didn't sound scared as much as she sounded scary.

He didn't want to know what she meant by laying the blame on herself. He really didn't. His thoughts turned away from the girl before him and to the girl waiting for him back at the castle. Mary, good old Mary who could generally be relied upon to be predictable, to provide both physical and emotional comfort and never question his rare moments of honesty.

She was probably waiting for him in bed, wondering why her boyfriend hadn't returned yet, wishing she'd accompanied Roman Vander back to his dormitory.

Meanwhile, Andrea Krupp was a plain-looking, blubbering wreck with emotional baggage. Actually, strike that, she looked a lot worse than plain at the moment. She was an ugly crier; that much was undeniable.

Her shoulders shook and her face was scrunched up and red. He had a feeling that she didn't cry often. Or perhaps ever.

Sirius hadn't cried in ages—not since he was a boy. His mother would take him onto her lap and wrap her arms around him. He didn't think that was a good way to comfort Andrea, but despite that, he edged a bit closer instead of—well, instead of diving off the boat and attempting to swim to shore and fight his way past a werewolf to avoid having to confront a crying girl.

He'd underestimated the weight of her emotions, though, because at that precise moment their petty rivalry was lost on her and she simply accepted his embrace and leaned into him.

"Fuck," she muttered eloquently. "Fuckity, fuck, fuck."

Sirius cleared his throat awkwardly, but she didn't seem to catch his subliminal message. She pulled him in even closer as if trying to get lost in the…er, fabric of his shirt. _Merlin, was this bird missing some screws? _She was practically on his lap now.

She didn't seem to find this…_seating arrangement_…odd, but his heart was thundering in his chest and he didn't know why.

"So what do you see in Edric, anyway?" he asked loudly, and then grimaced inwardly at how poorly executed his change of topic was.

She sniffed against his chest, but the mention of her boyfriend's name didn't provoke her to action; apparently, she didn't think that sitting on another boy's lap while discussing her boyfriend was an improper thing to do.

"Hesh nish," came her wavering voice against his shirt. Sirius felt his heart tighten in his chest, and he tensed up unexpectedly at the feel of her hot breath.

"I didn't catch that," he said stiffly. He needed to find a way to get her off—and fast. But he didn't want to risk inciting another bout of tears…Merlin's beard, how in hell did he always get himself into such precarious situations with girls?

Just a few weeks ago he'd accidentally stumbled into a broom closet with a buxom Hufflepuff named Anya Lewins—alright, perhaps it hadn't been an accident, but he and Mary had never agreed to being exclusive—but anyway, he was always getting himself caught up in predicaments like this—

"I said he's _nice._"

Sirius coughed loudly.

Drea pulled back, narrowing her eyes at him. "What?" she demanded.

He grinned. "Nothing."

She continued glaring. Her eyes were red and puffy, but despite that they were at odds with the rest of her face. They were large and bright and chocolate-colored and rimmed by long lashed. He considered telling her that, but decided against it on the basis that he wasn't particularly interested in getting hexed by a girl.

"Alright," he said when she didn't stop glaring, "calm down. It's just that Edric's so boring and conventional. But he's fit, so I can guess what you see in him."

To his surprise, she didn't deny his statement. Instead, she looked back towards the castle and smiled slightly, though her face was still damp with tears. "Yeah, he is _very_ fit."

Sirius frowned. Here she was, practically sitting on his lap—not any boy's lap—_Sirius Black's_ lap—and she was daydreaming about some other bloke. It was unacceptable. She might pretend to be immune to his charms, but no one really was.

He shifted beneath her and casually brushed her back with his arm as he stretched. "Do you know who else is very fit?" he said, his voice lowering an octave or so.

"Yes," she said quickly. "Argo Fallon."

He shoved her off, and she landed with a thump on the wooden flooring of the boat.

"What the fuck was that?" she growled roughly, nursing her arm where it's come into contact with the ground. Her voice was still hoarse from crying.

"Oops. I'm sorry," he said, taking care not to sound very sorry at all.

She sighed in exasperation. "Are we going to be heading back to the castle any time soon?" she asked pointedly. Sirius grinned and thrust the oars at her.

"I don't know. Are we?"

She looked at them warily, but to his surprise, took them without any comment. Her first strokes were weak, and propelled the boat no further than a foot or two, but gradually she got into a rhythm, and they were gliding across the Black Lake. He would have stopped her if he thought they were actually approaching the shore, but her form was off and they were really roaming in lazy circles across the lake's surface.

To him, the silence that descended was acutely uncomfortable. She was absorbed in her task, and he was trying to look anywhere but at the girl in front of him. Thankfully, Sirius had a fail-proof technique he often applied to end awkward situations: he'd just be as obnoxious and loud as possible.

"So, Argo Fallon, huh?"

"What do you mean?" She sounded surprised; she dropped the oars and looked up to meet his eyes. He held her gaze.

"You went to that party with him before. What, are you sleeping with all of seventh year, then?"

She eyed him across the boat, biting her lip. "I bet you thought that was clever." The consistency and physical exertion of rowing seemed to have quelled her sadness for the moment. She sounded as if she were holding back laughter.

Sirius pretended to be upset. "I'll have you know that most people consider me very clever."

"I'm not even sleeping with Edric," she said lightly, ignoring his feigned offense.

He grimaced. "Please, spare me the details." She was full out smiling now, and a part of him wanted to keep her that way. The knowledge that her relationship with her last boyfriend had been less than…well, had probably been fucking awful, made him feel strangely protective. For some reason, she'd trusted him with this information. No one else knew that she hadn't been happy.

Well, no one that mattered, because most Slytherins didn't count, _obviously._

"Of course you're not sleeping with him. I don't think he'd take that kind of leap, anyway," Sirius remarked, determined to strike up a lighthearted conversation with her.

She blinked. "What?"

"I was talking to him today about you." Sirius couldn't resist smirking at the somewhat horrified look on her face.

"What did he say? And _why _were you talking about me?" She leaned forwards, her lips pursed.

"He said you were sweet. And unique. And refreshing," Sirius said, attempting to sound disgusted, but coming across as curious instead.

Andrea looked confused. "So what does that have to do with him not wanting to sleep with me?"

"I never said he didn't _want_ to sleep with you."

"Yes, you did."

"I most certainly did not."

She rolled her eyes. "You said he didn't want to take _that kind of leap with me."_

Sirius nodded. "Yes, I did say that."

"Well?" She raised her eyebrows. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

"Baby steps," he announced definitively, as if this explained the issue.

She groaned. "Are you trying to sound like an idiot?"

"Not in the least. It comes to me quite effortlessly."

She scrutinized his face as if attempting to discern whether or now he was joking, and then rolled her eyes again. "You never told me how you ended up talking about me anyway."

"You're right. I didn't."

"I believe I'm going to punch you if you keep this up."

"Like you punched Avery?" he couldn't help asking.

"James told you about that?" She sounded surprised, but also vaguely pleased.

"Yeah. He said it was brilliant."

"It was. And yes, exactly like I punched Avery."

"Cool," he said, grinning. "I'd like to see you try."

"Are you giving me permission?"

"Sure," he said, his grin widening as he held back his laughter. "Go for it. You seem to have a lot of pent up emotions. Maybe it'll do you some good."

She didn't, though, and instead she stared at him curiously for a moment, her jaw clenched, a faint hint of amusement in her chocolate-colored eyes. Sirius was laughing in earnest now. "I knew you wouldn't do it…As if you'd ever—"

She leaned forward and slapped him. Hard.

"What the fuck?" he gasped, his eyes tearing up as he raised a hand to his face to brush his stinging cheek.

She seemed equally surprised. "_Whoa._"

"Whoa is right. What the fuck was that?" he yelled. "You slapped me!"

"You told me to!"

"I didn't think you actually would!"

"So? That's not my fault. You told me to. And it felt good."

"…You enjoyed slapping me? It's not enough that your hand had to violate my face—you had to _enjoy_ it?"

She frowned. "My hand did _not_ violate you face. Your face is lucky my hand ever deigned to go near it."

"What? That makes no sense."

"So?"

He shook his head. "You're mental," he muttered, and for some reason (possibly because she _was_, in fact, mental) that expletive set her off, and suddenly she was laughing uproariously—and it was contagious, because Sirius found himself joining in; the boat swayed and water lapped in, but they were at the point where this only made the situation even more hilarious for some reason.

He looked at her for a moment. Her eyes were less puffy and red now, and her hair was in a complete state of disarray from the wind. She was as thin and pale as ever, but she looked less frail and more alive. Her cheeks were flushed with laughter, and her eyes had lit up with mirth.

By the time they'd quieted, the boat had stilled and nothing could be heard save for the hooting of owls overhead.

"Can we go back now?" she asked, still smiling faintly. "I haven't heard any howling for a while."

Sirius shook his head. "Nope. Yeti, remember? It's still out there even if you can't hear it."

"Right," she said disbelievingly.

"Don't sound so upset. It's not so bad out here. This is nice."

"You just got slapped," she pointed out helpfully.

"I know. It's still nice, though."

"I guess," she shrugged.

He cast her a sidelong glance. Despite her doubtful tone, she seemed relaxed and was gazing up at the night sky. "That one's Orion," she said after a few moments of contemplation, pointing towards a part of the sky peppered with bright stars.

Sirius shook his head. "No, it's not." He took her arm gently and guided it to a different quadrant of the sky. "That's Orion. The Hunter." He moved her arm once more. "And these are his companions—his hounds."

She hadn't reacted to his touch in the slightest, and Sirius was once again struck by the strange feeling that somehow, he _knew_ her—knew the warmth of her hand that was only inches from his, her scathingly witty remarks, the retorts that were quick to leave her tongue.

Sirius shook the feeling off. _What a load of bollocks. One look at a weepy girl and you turn into a sentimental idiot._

"Oh. You like astronomy?" she asked, oblivious to his internal conflict.

"No," he said tersely, and it was true. He knew quite a lot about astronomy, but he didn't like it. Regulus did. "Can I have a cigarette?"

Andrea dug through her pocket and handed him the entire pack.

Sirius accepted it gratefully. "You really shouldn't smoke, you know?" he said as he lit one.

"Who told you that?"

"Lily Evans did."

"Was she trying to save your soul or something?"

He let out a barking laugh. That was a fairly accurate description of Lily. She didn't particularly like him—in fact, he'd have gone as far as to guess that she hated him (and James)—but she still fussed over him and the rest of the Marauders whenever she caught them doing something particularly serious (such as smoking) as if she were their mother. "Probably," he said.

They shared the cigarette, and then three more as they waiting for dawn to arrive, and when its pink tendrils crept over the horizon and the moon dipped below the skyline, Sirius breathed a sigh of smoke-tinged relief.

"C'mon, let's head back," he said. She didn't respond, and when he looked up he saw that her eyes were closed and she was still save for the steady rise and fall of her chest. "Slacker," he muttered, but when she stirred in her sleep at the sound of his voice he felt oddly guilty and set about rowing to shore as quietly as he could.

The jolt of the boat connecting with the shallows startled her from her sleep. He stepped out of the boat and helped her down as the sun rose in the early morning sky, and after they dried their robes, they slipped back up to the castle. Sirius waited a moment for her to leave before he could slip the cloak over his shoulders, but she lingered in the Great Hall, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Why do you keep—" she stopped and shook her head. "Never mind."

"Why do I keep what?" he asked wearily. He was exhausted from the night's adventure, and was dreading having to explain why he'd never showed up to the rest of the Marauders at breakfast.

"Nothing," she said, shrugging, and turned to go.

"Goodnight," he called after her.

She looked over her shoulder and cast him a small smile that left him feeling inexplicably happy. "'Night."

* * *

**A/N:** As always, thank you for reading. I apologize for how long this took to post! I hit a roadblock for this story so I decided to switch it up and write from Sirius' perspective. I think this may be a onetime thing, so I hope you guys liked it. If you did, please consider leaving a quick review!

Also, if you're a Scorose shipper, consider checking out my new story: Every Kingdom.


	13. The Outing

**Thirteen.  
The Outing**

_Anon,_

_I'm writing to you. I'm doing it right now. I know I said I'd wait for you to deal with your teenage hormones and such before writing again, but girls are such odd creatures that it could be years before you're well enough to write me back. How are you? That question was a formality. I'm a bit mad at you for not writing me back—not even to thank me for the literary masterpiece that is Nona and Footpad. So don't answer that question. I don't particularly care._

_Listen, it's my turn. I have more than my fair share of teenage hormones, and I'm feeling generous. First off, I miss you. You can make fun of me all you like but there you have it. I miss you. I hope you haven't died or gotten lost in the dungeons or something._

_Here are the facts:_

_My mother is ruining my life. My brother's an embarrassment. There are two girls I'm rather confused about—the first is silly and shallow and makes me feel content, the second thinks I'm silly and shallow and makes me feel discontent. My grades are suffering. I've been lying to my best mate. Quidditch is taking over my life. I miss you. I'm failing Potions again._

_Please write back. I was lying, before. I really do want to know how you are._

_Ever your faithful lackey,_

_Padfoot_

I sighed and rolled the parchment up. On this particular occasion, Padfoot's timing was somewhat lacking. The letter had arrived for me about an hour ago as I'd been heading down to the common room, and it'd been the first we'd exchanged in weeks. I wanted to respond, and it sounded as if he needed someone to confide in, but I was already late for my outing with Edric (which I resolutely refused to refer to as a date). I most certainly would respond to Padfoot as soon as I returned. In fact, I'd rather have stayed back and written to him instead of going out, but that was ridiculous for two major reasons.

One, I'd be caving in and avoiding social interaction, which was what I'd been forcing myself not to do the entire year, and two, considering it was a Hogsmeade weekend, Padfoot probably wouldn't be in the castle anymore and wouldn't be able to respond.

So as it was, I was going to make myself go on this outing with Edric and I was going to make myself enjoy it, too (if I could, that is).

The late January weather was still chilly, and so I'd opted for warmth over fashion and donned a wool coat that I had no plans to remove, and a pair of muggle jeans. I wasn't sure if Edric would have dressed up for the outing or not, so I figured I could plead practicality instead of accidentally under- or over-dressing. I felt slightly ashamed that I was making a point of not fussing over my appearance, but I also felt pleased that it was my appearance that I was worried about, and not the prospect of spending a few hours alone with a boy.

I wasn't entirely sure what was even going on between Edric and myself. Other than the fact that we occasionally snogged and smiled at one another in the halls, we didn't speak much, and I hardly knew him. James encouraged me to pursue him, though, and even Jon seemed to approve of Edric and me being together.

We'd only had one argument as of yet—he'd been disgusted when he realized I smoked, and asked me to quit. I didn't smoke all that often, and to top that off, I didn't like that Edric felt he could dictate my lifestyle. In the back of my mind, though, lingered the memory of Sirius Black's promise that we'd share an entire pack—and we'd only smoked eight so far. Not that I was counting, of course.

If I quit now, we wouldn't reach that goal. The first had been at the Halloween bash, the second had been smoked when we'd wandered the village of Amesworth, and then four more during our midnight escapade on the Black Lake, and then two more after that.

"Christ," I muttered beneath my breath. I was being stupid. Edric had a point. Cigarettes were toxic, and I'd been planning on quitting for a while. It was ridiculous to find the notion of quitting so distasteful all of a sudden.

I considered leaving Padfoot's letter on my nightstand, but decided to tuck it into the pocket of my coat instead. It weighed heavily there; I felt guilty for not responding right away. It was rude to have waited so long to write him back. Ours was a two-way relationship. Just because my life was better than usual and I didn't require someone to vent to, didn't mean my obligation to him had vanished.

I took the steps out of the dungeons two at a time, and headed up to the ground floor. It seemed as if most of the school was heading off to Hogsmeade today. There was half a foot of snow on the ground, but the courtyard had been magically cleared, and most of the students loitered there, mingling in groups of four or five before setting off towards the village.

It was the natural order of things. If you put a group of teenagers in a wide open space, they naturally tended to gravitate towards people that were equally attractive, or equally intelligent, or humorous. It occurred to me belatedly that the fact that Jon considered Argo and Edric to be among his closest friends might have indicated that there were people that probably found him attractive. Now _that_ was a slightly disturbing thought. It seemed Jon had won the Krupp family's genetic lottery.

Predictably enough, I found the three of them—Edric, Argo and my brother—standing about together in a semi-circle by the edge of the courtyard. With them were a few more seventh years I didn't recognize. Edric stood with his back to me, and I threaded my way through the groups of students to approach him.

"Hi, there," I said, smiling slightly as I tapped Edric on the shoulder. Edric glanced over his shoulder, and then turned around when he realized it was me.

"Hello," he said, grinning back.

I felt my confidence and resolve begin to crumble beneath his steady gaze, but forced myself to maintain my composure. I tucked my mitten-clad hands into my pockets and rocked back on my heels, taking in his form-fitting jumper and snug jeans. Admittedly, our interactions tended to be incredibly awkward, with neither of us really knowing what to say—but _Merlin,_ he was nice to look at.

"Hi, there, baby sister," Jon said from my left. I scowled. It was bloody typical of him to ruin the moment, and I began to turn towards him to chastise him. For my effort, I was rewarded with a snowball aimed right at my face, which rather abruptly ended my slow perusal of Edric.

I shrieked. The icy cold stole my breath away for a moment, and I shuddered as the snow slipped beneath my coat. Jon was laughing, but more than a few of his mates looked sympathetic.

"You!" I spat, whirling on Jon, who was practically doubled over with mirth.

"Oi," Edric said, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Get yourself together, Jon, it isn't all that funny."

"Yes it is," my brother gasped. He looked up, and our gazes met for a split-second, causing him to sober up quickly. "No," he said lowly, his eyes widening as he saw the malice on my face as I tugged my right mitten off. "You wouldn't."

Edric removed his hand from my shoulder and stepped back. "Your sister's a Slytherin, Jon. I daresay she would."

I was fairly quick on the draw; my hand went to my right boot, where my wand was tucked in, and I pulled it out and pointed at Jon.

"_Expeliarmus!_"

I hadn't intended for the spell to send him flying backwards. He only stumbled back a few feet and landed in the snow, and this time, I was the one laughing. My hair whipped around my face from the chilly wind, and clung to my cheeks that were still damp from the snowball he'd thrown at me.

Most of the seventh years gathered around were laughing as well despite the descending chill and began packing snowballs. As humorous as it was to see my brother stumble into a snowdrift, I had no plans to stick around and get caught in icy crossfire. I reached out tentatively, and tugged at Edric's sweater. He turned and caught my gaze, and sensing my discomfort about the situation, took my hand in his.

"C'mon," he said, still beaming as the courtyard erupted into chaos as students began tossing snowballs at one another. As always, his touch sent a strange shiver through me. It wasn't a physical or emotional response, but simply the same, curious discomfort I experienced when anyone came too near in a platonic way. It made me unsure of his motives. It was easy enough to dismiss when it was Edric who was touching me, though. He seemed harmless. We ducked our heads and ran past, skidding to a halt as we reached the carriages.

He held out his arm, and I realized belatedly that he'd meant to hand me up into the carriage. I'd already grasped the doorframe and entered, though. He came in right after and seated himself next to me, and the carriage set off, rattling down the narrow path to Hogsmeade.

I was almost glad for my brother's childish tactics at that moment, because at the very least, he'd quite literally broken the ice for my outing with Edric today. I sat stiffly in my seat, whereas he was relaxed by my side. He wrapped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me close to his side.

"So," he said, his voice booming in the cramped carriage. "Where would you like to go today?"

I looked up at him, taking in his tousled blonde curls and bright, hazel eyes.

"Wherever you'd like," I said.

He nodded contentedly, and brought his hand close to cup my face.

"I'll decide for the both of us," he said, lowering his voice.

It was easy, then, to kiss him, because the situation itself was so crude and senseless. A boy and girl alone in a carriage—it was the sort of thing you'd expect, and as I felt his lips move against mine and his arms come around me, his body reacting instinctively, I knew this was what he'd intended to happen today. It was odd that holding Edric's hand made me so much more acutely uncomfortable and aware of his presence than kissing him did. When it was like this, his body pressing against mine through the layers of my coat and his sweater, he could have been any boy, anywhere, taking what boy's valued from girls.

"My god," he murmured against my lips, "you're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

He didn't give me a chance to answer before he pulled me back into it, but the words startled me. Had he expected me not to enjoy blind, physical intimacy this much?

His arms came all the way around me, and he hoisted me in his lap, and I suddenly became worried that he'd want to go all the way right there in the carriage.

"Wait," I said softly.

"Don't worry," he said, "you're just my sort of girl."

I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, and he didn't have a chance to elaborate because the carriage jerked to a stop, and I landed back in my seat. Edric rose shakily, his cheeks flushed and his hair tousled, and helped me to my feet. I pushed the curtains on the carriage entrance back, and Edric bent to give me a quick kiss on the cheek as I descended.

I shot him a wan smile as he stepped down next to me, the snow crunching beneath his feet. He wore dark, expensive looking boots, and I felt an absurd stab of genuine annoyance as they crushed the pristine white snow beneath their heels.

He noticed my flinch, and gave me a curious look. "Andrea," he said worriedly as he slipped his hand into mine, "I didn't mean to push you too far just now."

I didn't know what to say to that. I simply nodded, and he gave me a stern look as if he was disappointed, but I couldn't figure out what for. We made our way through the village as freshly fallen snow dusted the ground. I didn't speak, and I preferred it that way. There was something about silence, about how easy it was, that usually calmed me. It was nicer when I was caught up in my own thoughts, especially on a picturesque day like this when snow was falling lightly and twinkling Christmas lights that hadn't yet been removed decorated the idyllic village.

Edric didn't seem to think this way, though. He kept up a lively commentary on everything we passed—sharing facts about the stores, and greeting storeowners and students alike by their first names. I nodded and smiled when it was expected, but finally, as we drew to a halt outside The Three Broomsticks and Edric called aside Madam Rosmerta and was permitted to cut the long line of students waiting for a table, I asked him the question that'd been on my mind for the past half hour.

"Merlin, Edric," I said, as we were led to one of the prime tables despite the throng of student's waiting for a seat that'd arrived before us. "How is it that you seem to know everyone?"

He shrugged and flashed me a good-natured smile. "Family friends, mostly."

I took my seat across from him, and he called to the bar for two mugs of butterbeer. I couldn't imagine what it must've been like to be him. It would be stupid to assume that his life was easy, even if it seemed that way on the surface. Perhaps there were things he kept to himself, but from the outside, he seemed so easy-going and uncomplicated. It was petty of me, but I couldn't help thinking it wasn't fair. Edric had been born into a well-connected family, he was good-looking, and he was intelligent. It was hard to be bitter about his good luck, though, since he was so bloody nice to everyone.

"So," he said, as a waiter deposited two mugs at our table, "how's life?"

"It's good," I said quickly, without pausing to truly consider his question.

"Yeah?" He took a large swallow of his butterbeer and reclined back in his chair.

I nodded absentmindedly, and glanced around the inn. Most of the students had finally been seated and were laughing and talking boisterously. The tables near the bar were packed, and it seemed that nearly everyone had entered the inn for a warm drink and reprieve from the cold.

Edric set down his mug. "Who are you friends with?"

"Sorry?" I said, my gaze returning to him.

"I asked who your friends were."

"Oh," I said, feeling strangely anxious. "Well, I room with Isla Crabbe and she's…nice." I shrugged. I didn't even know how to answer his question, but to imply that Isla and I were even on speaking terms or that we'd ever had a legitimate conversation was practically an outright lie.

"Isla Crabbe?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "I haven't the faintest idea who she is," he announced.

I laughed. That really meant something coming from Edric, who seemed to know everyone. "She isn't in school much," I explained, "neither are my other roommates. They don't show up much this year."

"Why's that?"

"Society events and such," I said. "It isn't all that important for girls like them to be publicly educated. I mean, they've got tutors and all, I suppose."

"Tutors?" Edric said, raising his eyebrows. "What do you think they learn?"

"Well, they all spoke French, if I recall correctly. That sort of thing." I really didn't know all that much about them, other than the fact that they'd seemed like fairly intelligent girls—but unlike me, they'd had a sense of poise and grace instilled in them since birth.

He let out a short laugh. "Can I be honest with you for a moment?"

I shrugged and toyed with my mug of butterbeer. "Have you been lying to me up until now?"

He shook his head. "No, of course not. I just meant to ask if I could be frank about something."

"What's that?"

"That you're not so bad," he said.

If I'd been drinking, I would have choked. "I…excuse me?"

"That came out wrong," he said hastily. "I mean, considering your situation, you've done well for yourself."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," I said. A distinct edge of iciness had crept into my voice. Who was this boy to presume to judge my life? It was laughable. And what sort of date—sorry, _outing_—was this turning out to be anyway?

He grinned sheepishly. "I'm really screwing this up, aren't I?"

"I don't even know what _this _is," I said pointedly. "What are you trying to say?"

He let out a sigh. "All I meant to say was that you've had shitty roommates, and forgive my honesty, but you've had shitty house members in general, but you've turned out quite alright. In fact, you're pretty damn interesting."

"Is that so," I said, folding my hands in my lap. It didn't come out like a question; I was simply as a loss for words once more.

"It is," he said amiably, either not sensing or choosing to ignore the layer of indifference in my tone. "I know this sounds odd, but I _have_ noticed you before this year."

"Of course you did," I muttered. "You've noticed just about everyone, from what I can tell."

Edric laughed. "What can I say? I'm a social creature."

"You _collect_ friends," I snapped back. I realized it was true as I said it. Edric was hard not to notice, what with his good looks and family connections. To top that off, he actively went out of his way to cultivate casual acquaintanceships with people. There was no other way he could have conceivably known so many of the students and villagers in Hogsmeade.

"Maybe so," Edric responded easily, "but doesn't that mean you're special, considering I've clearly taken an interest in you?"

I blushed and glanced down. Had he really, though? He'd managed to cultivate a broad network of friends before he even left Hogwarts. As much as I found his cavalier attitude distasteful, I couldn't help but appreciate it. It was devious. In fact, it was downright Slytherin.

"You should be a politician," I said at last.

"I plan to be," he said. He watched as I drank my butterbeer, and then spoke again. "And I think I can help you."

I bit my lip nervously and tried to grasp what exactly he was proposing.

"See, you shouldn't do that," Edric said, startling me from my thoughts. He reached out, and I watched wide-eyed as he brushed the pad of his thumb across my lips. "You shouldn't bite your lip or feel so nervous. You're a fascinating girl, Andrea," he said, lowering his voice. "Don't be afraid to meet anyone's gaze."

I jerked my chair back noisily, putting more space between us, and he lowered his hand, laying it flat against the table. He was flattering me, and I refused to fall under his sway so easily. I needed to know his motives. This entire encounter was bizarre. I cleared my throat.

"What are you trying to say, Edric? Because I thought you'd asked me to accompany you to Hogsmeade for lunch at Madam Puddifoots, or something like that. I'm not entirely sure what we're doing here."

"I just figured you'd benefit from having a way in—as in, a way to break into the rest of Hogwarts, outside of your social circle."

I realized, with a sense of shock, that what he was offering me sounded appealing. If I did want to make something more of myself, beyond the mere shadow I'd been existing as within the confines of my limited circle of friends (if I could even call my housemates that), then Edric was the perfect way to break in. He epitomized normal, and if he could teach me that, if he could place that within my reach—

It was the silliest notion I'd ever heard. Elegance and confidence couldn't be taught, could they? What Edric offered was a myth. People looked up to people like him, and they looked out for his best interests, because deep inside, they one day hoped to _be_ him. And suddenly, now that I was sitting across from Edric Lukin, and he was dangling the promise of the very future I'd intended and hoped for myself in front of me, I realized how stupid I'd been to think it was ever possible. The vague, inchoate vision I had of the future—one where I was happy and content and well-cared for—was just as illusory as my wish for a childhood like the one Edric must've had.

The opportunity to attain it had passed.

I shook my head slowly. "You invited me here today to give me that sort of chance? To learn how to make more friends? …Is this supposed to be a favor?"

Edric seemed to notice the change in my demeanor, and he took my hand in his. "Somewhat. It also turns out that I actually do like you quite a lot." He sounded earnest enough as he said that, and I couldn't help but believe him. He paused for a moment, staring at me as if he were attempting to gauge my reaction to his statements. "Are you mad?"

"I don't know," I said uneasily. "I can't decide if what you're doing is kind or condescending. It depends, I guess."

"On what?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. I could see the golden flecks in his hazel eyes, and had to force myself to focus.

"On whether you're doing it out of empathy as a favor to me, or if you're doing it as a favor to my brother."

He hesitated slightly, and his hand tensed in mine. I didn't give him a chance to respond.

"But, okay," I said. "I'll take you up on whatever help you think you have to offer."

He beamed. "Really?"

I shrugged. "Sure."

I was humoring him. I'd already settled into the routines of my life, and I already knew who I was. It was too late to change who I was on a fundamental level simply to please those around me and fit their mold. What was left for me to do now was to learn to be satisfied with myself, knowing that I'd never truly attain the status or contentment of people like Edric—of people that I envied.

It was a saddening realization, but a real one nonetheless.

"We could start now," Edric said firmly. He rose from the table, and picked up both of our drinks. "C'mon," he said, nodding towards the main tables where most of the students were crowded.

I rose warily and followed him. I wasn't in the mood to socialize—but then, I rarely was and now was probably better than never.

"Smile," Edric whispered to me as I trudged along behind him, a portrait of gloominess. My scowl deepened. I may have been going along with his silly scheme (for purely selfish reasons—Edric was attractive and I liked him, and I wanted to spend more time with him), but I wasn't about to obey him unquestioningly.

He noted my scowl, but it only caused him smile to widen, for some reason. I crossed my arms across my chest, being purposefully difficult.

"Merlin," Edric said, glancing heavenwards. I could hear the reluctant amusement in his voice. "I did mean it when I said I liked you, Andrea." He lowered his head and gave me a swift kiss on the cheek before I could comprehend what he was about to do. My face flushed.

It seemed that when Edric approached the bar, a half-dozen people scooted out of the way to offer him a seat. I scarcely resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but a more honest part of me admitted that I was jealous of the respect he was shown by his peers.

"Hey," Edric said to a freckled boy across the table as he seated himself. He placed the two mugs down and gestured for me to sidle in next to him. I slid in, and he immediately dropped his arm over my shoulders, pulling me even closer.

The boy greeted him in return and gave me a curious look.

"This is Andrea Krupp," Edric announced loudly, and more than a few heads turned to catch sight of me.

"Hi," I said flatly, unsure of what to make of the people seated across from me.

"Well, hello there," crooned one of Edric's friends, loudly, and the group dissolved into laughter.

"Oh, don't mind Amos," a curly-haired girl said, tugging at the sleeve of the boy who'd spoken. "He's easily excited, if you know what I mean."

The boy turned bright red as his friends joined in the laughter this time. For my part, I felt pleased on a superficial level that I was the object of attention—positive attention, especially—and that I received more than a few envious and appreciative looks from the girls at the table. This must've been a glimpse of the kind of life that girls like Isla Crabbe lived, and it certainly wouldn't last, so I may as well have enjoyed it while it did.

A louder voice within me sensed that there was something very wrong here. Still, though, it was alarmingly easy to spend time with these people. Within minutes, the conversation had picked up its pace, and I even found myself speaking up a few times. It grew hot in the room, and I shrugged off my coat. Padfoot's missive was still in the pocket, and I felt a strange pang of guilt. What would Padfoot have thought if he'd seen me here?

Maybe he would have been in awe of me—at how at ease I was pretending to be, at how seamlessly I could make myself fit in with these seventh years that epitomized everything that Hogwarts stood for: courage, intellect, loyalty, and none of the negative qualities that typically characterized my house.

It was far more likely though, that had Padfoot seen me and known who I was, he would have recognized me as a fraud.

I pushed that disconcerting thought from my mind and forced myself to focus on the present.

"What did you say your name was?" I prompted, my voice quavering as I spoke to the girl who'd playfully mocked Amos before.

"Corinne," the girl said. "And you're Andrea, right? It's so nice to meet you! I didn't know Edric was seeing someone."

From the corner of my eye, I could see that Edric was listening as well. "Oh, you know," I said lightly, without any real clue as to what I was saying. "It just sort of happened."

"Did it?" the girl said, leaning across the table. "How did you two meet?"

This, at least, was a question I could answer. "Edric's friends with my brother. Maybe you know him—Jonathan Krupp?"

"Oh! You mean Jon," she said. "Of course I know Jon. He never mentioned he had a sister, though," she added, frowning slightly.

"I wouldn't worry about it," I said quickly. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. It probably just never came up."

"Well, yes, but a sister's the sort of thing that'd come up when you've known someone for several years, don't you think?"

I shrugged, and decided to stop dancing around the issue. It wasn't as if I could tell her outright that Jon and I had a rather strained relationship. "Jon's weird," I said succinctly.

"Oh, yes," Corrine said, nodding her head vigorously. "Weird is the word for it. Did you know that ever since coming back from break he's been avoiding Marlene? I mean, yes, it's Jon and he could easily get another girl—"

I winced at that point, but she didn't notice and continued blathering.

"—but even then. Marlene! Marlene McKinnon! Have you seen her? _I'd_ do her. What sort of bloke leaves her hanging?"

My jaw was working up and down, but I'd been struck dumb. How on earth was I supposed to respond to a question like that? "Er…a very weird one? Like Jon?"

This seemed to be the right answer. "Exactly!" Corrine said. She seemed relieved that my brother hadn't intended to slight her by neglecting to mention me, and resumed flirting with Amos.

Beside me, Edric was shaking with mirth.

"Shut up," I muttered, elbowing him in the side. He was as nice as he pretended he was, he would've rescued me from that unbelievably awkward conversation. Edric avoided my elbow and tried to press a kiss to the top of my head, but I wasn't having any of that.

"You can't just try and kiss me every time I'm cross at you," I said, scowling.

He shot me a disarming smile. "Why not?"

"Yeah, why not, Krupp?" someone behind me said.

I felt my face flush. I recognized that voice.

"Sirius!" Edric exclaimed, cordially turning in his seat, and reaching out to shake Black's hand. I knew the two of them knew each other—Black had once mentioned that he'd spoken to Edric, after all, but the two were so different that it was hard to imagine them being close.

I turned in my seat stiffly. Black was standing there as if he didn't have a care in the world. Despite the cold, he hadn't donned a coat. His left hand was tucked into his pocket, and with the other he swirled a glass of amber liquid. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, wet from the steady snowfall outdoors.

He grinned. "Edric," he said, inclining his head. He nodded towards me. "It's good of you to keep your woman in line."

"That's not quite what I meant," Edric said, his smile slipping.

"Of course not."

"Black," I cut in, rising to my feet. I had no idea what he was doing. I thought we'd parted well on our last encounter. Since the midnight escapade on the Black Lake, we'd been getting along fine. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, and spoke as neutrally as I could. "It's nice to see you. There's no need to talk as if I'm not right here."

He gave me a tight smile, but his eyes remained cold. He was acting as if I'd done something horribly wrong by being here, when he was the one that was being inexplicably rude. "It's nice to see you as well, Krupp," he said. "Now _do_ sit down and smile like a good girl, yeah? We men are talking."

I was too shocked to feel angry—he hadn't spoken to me like this since the summer when he'd made all sorts of crazy assumptions about me. In fact, the last time we'd spoken, he'd seemed friendly, but just now his tone had been cruel.

I was stupid for feeling so surprised. How unbearably predictable it was of him to ruin a perfectly lovely _outing. _I should have known he'd be the sort of person to mock me for attempting to make friends for once. Ever since I'd been unlucky enough to meet him this summer, he'd been cropping up at inopportune moments.

The students at the table who had been so loud and talkative only moments before had quickly gone silent and were staring resolutely away from Black. Edric broke the tension and spoke up.

"Have a seat, Black. If you've got something to say, say it."

Black rounded the table and sat opposite us, squeezing in beside an affronted-looking Corinne, and Amos, who looked grateful for the rock-solid physical barrier cutting Corinne off from him.

"Well?" Edric said coolly.

Black's eyebrows shot up. "Relax, Edric. I was messing around. I've been sitting at the table over there," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "I only came by to comment on what a lovely couple the two of you make."

He fixed me with his cold, grey-eyed gaze, and I squirmed in my seat and stared into my lap. It was as if he were daring me to look him in the eye and say what we both knew:

_Liar. _

I didn't know why he'd left his friends to come to our table, but surely, that wasn't the reason.

Edric didn't seem to believe him either, but for propriety's sake, accepted Black's excuse. He nodded his thanks and he relaxed visibly in his chair. "Don't you think?" he said, pulling me close. "We do make a good couple, don't we?" he said again, this time to me, and this time when he lowered his head to kiss me, I didn't resist.

I was definitely going to have to have a talk with him about his timing later. Yes, he was a good kisser, but he never seemed to be kissing me because he liked to—it was more of a way to placate me. It was eerily similar to the way it had been with Mulciber, but I pushed that thought from my head. It was as if each or Edric's kisses was meant to prove something—to reassure me, to stop me from being cross at him, or this time, apparently, to put on a show for an audience.

He was using me as a prop.

"Hear hear!" someone cheered loudly when we broke apart.

"Christ," I said darkly, turning to greet the newcomer. "I should have known Tweedledee wouldn't be too far behind Tweedledumb."

James Potter had appeared behind his best mate. He had his Gryffindor scarf wrapped around his face like a muffler, but I could tell from the tangled mess that was his hair that it was none other than he. At present, he seemed occupied with detangling his scarf so that he could speak.

"I don't object"—he huffed, as he unraveled the scarf—"to that analogy as long as—mmfhffmph."

James's failed attempt at self-asphyxiation-by-scarf managed to diffuse any of the lingering tension at the table, and Amos and the others joined in the general laughter – in fact, everyone did except for Corinne, who worriedly tried to assist James.

"Thank you, darling," James said, beaming at Corinne when he'd at last been extricated from the offending article of neckwear. "As I was saying," he said, rounding on me, "I don't object to that analogy as long as Sirius here gets to be Tweedledumb."

I pretended to consider it. "Done," I said, reaching across the table so we could shake on it. James grinned and pumped my hand up and down vigorously, then shoved Black over and took a seat next to him. Black scowled at his mate, but scooted over obligingly and made room on the bench.

"Nice entrance, Potter," Edric commented drily as James helped himself to Amos's butterbeer.

"Thanks!" he said, wiping the his mouth with the back of his hand. "I've missed Hogsmeade. Haven't been here since before break."

"It's always nice to be back, though I do miss being home. Don't we all, though?" Edric said. He seemed less irritated than he had been moments before. James did seem to have that sort of effect on people.

"Right-o," Black, cut in, responding enthusiastically. "I, for one, believe that an unacceptable amount of time has passed since I was last forced to kneel in gravel." He raised his glass and gave an ironic salute. "To home!"

Corinne was gawking at him, and Edric and James seemed equally confused by his bizarre toast. As irritated as I'd been with Black only a few moments before, and as tense as the situation had been, I could help it—I started laughing—and not the stifled, polite sort that I'd been forcing out for the past half hour—this was real, genuine laughter. It seemed I was the only one sitting there that had any idea what Black was talking about.

Black leveled me with his gaze. "And why exactly are you laughing, Krupp?"

"Peas," I said, before I could think better of it. "My mother was fond of peas, as opposed to gravel. It bruised worse but there were less scrapes."

Black flashed me a grin, and this time, it was without a trace of irony. "And what did you have to do to earn that sort of punishment?"

I hadn't noticed that the rest of the people seated with us had drawn strangely quiet. It was so bloody strange to be able to converse about something of this nature with someone other Padfoot, for a change, that I responded honestly.

"Oh, you know," I said, "talk back, or insinuate that I wouldn't be a pureblood's broodmare."

He let out a barking laugh. "I'll drink to that! Here's a toast to pureblood matchmaking," he crowed, taking another swig of his drink.

Without thinking, I reached for my drink. Here in Hogsmeade, so far removed from my parents' cottage in Ottery St. Catchpole, it was extraordinarily easy to find the absurdities of my life humorous. I'd never stopped to consider that others had experienced the same things—and commiserating with Black was like sharing an inside joke.

In its own way, it was freeing.

Before I could take a swallow, someone's hand wrapped itself around mine. I looked up. Edric was looking at me worriedly. That was all it took to ground me—I felt a sudden swell of embarrassment in the pit of my stomach and set the drink down. His grip relaxed on my hand almost immediately. I felt strangely ashamed of brazenly admitting to my mother's disciplinary tactics, and felt my cheeks heat with a blush.

Really, it was a very primal, basic, thing for a teenage girl to be ashamed of. I was being _weird._ It wasn't polite to talk about these sorts of things in public. In fact, it wasn't polite to ever bring them up at all. And to talk about them so openly with Sirius Black, of all people, was the most embarrassing part of it all.

Black noticed my abrupt reticence, and being the absolute arse that he was, chose to comment on it. "I'm sorry, is something wrong?" he asked, glancing about the table with a look of feigned innocence. James looked acutely uncomfortable, and Amos and Corinne were watching the spectacle before them avidly.

Edric cleared his throat. "I don't think Andrea thinks this is an appropriate conversation for the moment."

"You know," Black said, leaning towards Edric, "it's best for couples to be completely honest with each other."

"Sirius," James said, placing a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder and shoving him back into his seat.

"What's the matter, Prongs? It was just some friendly advice."

It seemed Edric had finally grown tires of Black's temperamental attitude tonight. Black had been vascillating back and forth between rudeness and propriety. Edric remained silent, but had fixed Black with a chilling glare.

I, on the other hand, had no issue with speaking up. He'd come here and been borderline cruel when I thought we'd been on good terms, then, as if he were going out of his way to screw with my head, had claimed that he'd meant no harm—and now he'd eased me into admitting a humiliating secret, and didn't seem to see anything wrong with it.

"How _dare_ you?" I spat.

"How dare I what?" Black asked innocently.

"How dare you insinuate that Edric and I aren't honest with one another? That we don't have a proper relationship? You wouldn't know what a proper relationship's like, considering you've never—you just—you sleep with every girl you meet and you don't understand—"

I was fumbling desperately for words in a poor attempt to verbalize the embarrassment and anger I felt. I knew deep inside that it wasn't Black I was angry at, precisely; he was just such an easy target. I was angry because he was right—because I did want my relationship with Edric to be a proper one, but I didn't know how to be honest with him. I couldn't converse with him openly without worrying that I'd say too much and scare him away. And Edric, despite having known me for such a short period of time, was already convinced I required saving though he didn't even know about many of the things I struggled with.

Edric seemed bewildered by the situation that was unfolding before him, and rose abruptly to his feet. He looked backed and forth across the table at Sirius and me tersely, and whatever it was he saw reflected in my eyes made his jaw clench. "Well," he said, placing a few sickles on the table, "I suppose I'll just leave you two to it." He gave me a curt nod. "I'll be outside."

My anger diffused as Amos and Corinne followed suit and went to go converse quietly with Edric. I felt silly. I'd certainly drawn attention to myself, but not the right sort. I'd caused a scene.

James, realizing that Black and I were probably about to begin our customary arguing, snatched up his scarf off the table and stood up. "Er, I think I heard someone calling my name..." He practically sprinted away. I rolled my eyes. What a traitorous coward.

In the corner, Edric finished conversing with his friends and stalked out of the inn. The people seated at my table, who had been so noisy and pleasant only minutes ago, were all gone thanks to the idiotic boy who was sitting across from me and watching me for my reaction.

"Goddamn it, Black," I muttered"Are you happy now? You've ruined my date."

"You're not angry, though," he shot back with a teasing grin.

I blinked at him in surprise. All traces of rudeness had disappeared from his voice and demeanor, and his smile seemed genuine. What was he playing at?

_Shit._ The answer was simple. He'd been playing _me_—for a fool, that is. He'd put on an act to call me out on how bloody fake I was being, and it appeared that he'd enjoyed himself in the process. He'd mocked Edric's patronizing treatment of me, and then drawn out my real personality.

Merlin, he was a good actor. The hostility that had laced his voice when he'd spoken to Edric had seemed so real. He was right, too, that I wasn't angry. I was slightly ashamed of how unlike myself I'd acted in the past hour or so—who had I been trying to impress, anyway? I'd been playing a part, and it had been an unbelievably uncomfortable experience.

There was, of course, no way I would admit any of that to Black.

"Shut up," I snapped. "And wipe that smirk off your face or so help me god, I'll—"

"Don't pretend you're angry at me," he gloated. "You're not."

I sighed and buried my face in my hands.

"In fact," he said thoughtfully, "I'd daresay you're secretly grateful, aren't you?"

"Don't push it, Black," I growled, lowering my hands.

He sloshed his drink across the table top, pushing it back and forth between his palms. "You should probably go out there and talk to him," he said lightly.

I groaned at the prospect of having to rise and go stomping about in the snow to console Edric.

Black chuckled.

"Oh, shut up, you," I said as I pushed myself up. "This isn't amusing."

He looked up at me, surprised. "You're going to go after him?"

"You're the one that literally _just_ suggested it," I pointed out.

"Well, yeah, because it was the polite thing to do, but why actually do it? Isn't it a bit soon to be breaking his heart? Not that I'm protesting, of course," he added hurriedly. "You two are awful together. But you should give him a few more minutes. Stay and have a drink with me."

"What the hell are you even talking about? I'm not going out there to break up with him," I sputtered. "I'm going out there to apologize and ask _him_ not to break up with me."

"Of course you are," he said, grinning. I frowned at him, and just as quickly, the grin disappeared from his face. "Shit—you're serious aren't you?"

I rolled my eyes again and headed for the door. He lurched to his feet after me, scrambling around the table and knocking over someone's bottle of mead. He didn't even bother to apologize. He walked quickly, attempting to catch up with me.

"Wait, what are you doing?" he called as I threaded my way through the crowded floor. "You should go out there and punch him in the face—tell him never to talk to you again—"

The door swung shut behind me, cutting Black off mid-sentence.

The world outside was quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of the inn. There was a new layer of snow on the ground, but it had finally stopped falling. The area outside the inn was covered with footprints in the snow, but I didn't have to look for Edric's. He was standing by the edge of the path, his arms wrapped around himself to ward off the cold. I mentally cursed myself for keeping him waiting in this kind of weather.

"Edric," I called.

He turned around and caught sight of me.

"Hey," I said, smiling slightly as I raised a hand in greeting and stepped forward. Before he could respond, I continued. "I want to explain. What happened in there was a mess, and it was entirely my fault, because I wasn't acting like myself and Black knew that and he's such a complete arse that he probably thought it would be funny to call me out on it, and in his own, convoluted way, that's really all he was trying to do in there—"

"Listen," Edric started, "I've remembered I have an exam tomorrow—Maybe we can talk some other time—"

Ah, shit.

Shit shit shit. I'd gone and ruined this, too. I needed a way to show him that I meant what I was saying and that I wanted another chance—so I borrowed one of this tricks. I took a quick step forward and stood on tiptoe to press my lips to his, cutting him off. He didn't move. I pulled back, tucking my hands into my pockets. It had been a nicer kiss than the silly, choreographed ones we'd shared earlier today.

"So we'll talk later?" I asked hopefully.

He sighed loudly, looking adorably rumpled. "You know what…let's just talk now."

But the way he said it—dejected and tired—made me uneasy. I bit my lip, dreading where this was going. "Wait, Edric. Don't do this," I said hastily, afraid to meet his eyes.

"Do what? What are you talking about Drea?" he asked, looking at me curiously.

"I…you're going to break up with me, right?" I cringed as the words left my mouth. I sounded desperate and whiny, and technically, I didn't even know if Edric could break up with me, considering we'd never truly been going out...

"What?" He sounded shocked. "Why would I do that?"

Oddly enough, this made me feel guilty. I'd trashed his date, and humiliated him in front of his friends, but he wasn't planning on ditching me. In fact, it didn't even seem as if the thought had occurred to him.

"You seemed mad in there," I said, gesturing towards the inn.

He shrugged. "I don't want to be the one to get between you and Black."

"What?" I asked, gaping at him in a rather unattractive manner.

"For god's sake, I'm not an idiot, Andrea—I could tell there's something going on between the two of you," Edric said, not unkindly.

"_No._ Of course not—_he's_ the idiot, not you." I couldn't seem to get the words out fast enough. How could Edric, who read people so well that he couldn't count all his friends, have misread the situation so much? "Honestly," I said, "there's nothing between us that you could possibly be at risk of...getting between."

Edric ran a hand through his hair and gave me a small smile. "I suppose I'm being a bit of an idiot, aren't it?"

I nodded. "A bit," I agreed seriously.

"It's just that with a bloke like Sirius there's always the question of…I mean, he is rather good looking so I wouldn't fault you for..."

"You're good looking too," I pointed out.

"And is that why you're seeing me?"

I sighed. I'd been pretentious and dishonest the entire morning. It was time to try honesty and see if the results were any better.

"Well, it's a large part of it. I don't know you all that well—but I like you."

"But not in a lovey-dovey sort of way?" he asked, raking a hand through his hair.

I stepped close and placed my hands on his shoulders again. "We could address the fact that I'm not all that romantically interested in you yet _or_ we could address the fact that you just said lovey-dovey," I said lightly.

He smiled sheepishly. "That was a little lame, wasn't it?"

I nodded.

"So," he said offhandedly, as he lowered his head, "do you want to go somewhere private and snog?"

I grinned. "Absolutely."

* * *

**A/N:** An entire chapter about a really weird and melodramatic _outing_ in Hogsmeade. I don't even know what went down here. Also, I'm super sorry about how late this chapter is! I have no excuse, but I hope you enjoyed the update (as weird as it was). Maaaaaybe consider leaving a review? :D


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